


All Our Stars Aligned (Put Love On Hold)

by xaritomene, xrysomou



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Depression, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Period Typical Attitudes, Regency Romance, Ridiculous, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 133,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2255661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaritomene/pseuds/xaritomene, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xrysomou/pseuds/xrysomou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, Patrick starts playing cards at gaming hells to make ends meet. So far, he's managing, but when he meets Lord Highleyton, London's favourite disgrace, things start to unravel at an alarming rate - until Patrick ends up betting the last thing he has to offer: himself. Pete just wants to help, but he soon finds he might be doing more harm than good.</p>
<p>We'd say this is a shameless Regency AU of the Mills and Boon variety, but the truth is we are very ashamed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One of us has a degree in 18th century history. This was an enormous hindrance.
> 
> Also, we really are very, very ashamed.
> 
> Thanks have to go to **so1said** , who cheerled us through this entire thing; **heylou** , who was so enthusiastic about the fic, and so kind about it; and the Bandom Big Bang mods, who organised such a great challenge this year, with such skill.
> 
> Particular thanks, of course, go to **melusina** , who made us the most _amazing_ mix (see below!) and was so incredibly kind and supportive throughout all our freak-outs and hair-tearing moments. Also, seriously, her mix is fantastic - listening to it enhances the story no end, and each song goes perfectly with the moment she envisaged for it. Thank you so much for that!
> 
> To anyone who gets through this monster of a fic - thank you for reading. You deserve a medal.

**Mix: Not In The Stars** \- download it [HERE](https://www.mediafire.com/?qxexg49noisx9px)

1\. That Sea, The Gambler - Gregory Alan Isakov  
2\. Days Like Masquerades - The Academy Is  
3\. The Boys Are Too Refined - The Hush Sound  
4\. The Magic Position - Patrick Wolf  
5\. Maybe Sprout Wings - The Mountain Goats  
6\. I Can’t Love You Now - Sarah Jarosz  
7\. I’m a Mess - Ed Sheeran  
8\. I Do - Gin Wigmore  
9\. The Beggar’s Heart - Maura O’Connell  
10\. All My Days - Alexi Murdoch  
11\. Say Something - Pentatonix  
12\. You Don’t Make It Easy Babe - Josh Ritter  
13\. Never Let Me Go  
14\. Dance Me to the End of Love

[Seriously, download it and listen - it's spectacular.](https://www.mediafire.com/?qxexg49noisx9px)

**

The room was unbearably hot, Patrick thought, resisting the urge to tug at his cravat. It was cramped and crowded as well, and every available space was taken up with a card table, so there was barely an inch of space between one man and the next. For that, Patrick was glad he was sat in a corner, even if it did put him uncomfortably close to the fire which provided most of the light. He could barely see his cards, and was trusting more to Harry’s ineptitude than his own luck – he could read Harry’s cards from his face, as surely as if he’d looked over his shoulder.

“I fold,” Harry said, throwing down his cards. It was some relief to Patrick that his gaming partner was Harry Winston, prospective earl of Melcombe, and had a sizeable income which far outstripped anything he could lose at the tables. Patrick might feel some guilt about it, but he wasn’t as though he was taking the bread from Harry’s table. Removing a couple of extraneous dishes, perhaps, but only so he could eat himself. “Damn it, Stump, that’s fifty pounds you’ve had off me this week. This can’t go on!”

Harry was grinning ruefully, and Patrick risked a smile. He’d actually won fifty six pounds and twelve shillings off him, but little instances of absent-mindedness like these were the reason that Patrick continued to play at this particular hell – most of the regular gamblers, Harry included, had pockets so deep that they could afford to lose a little to Patrick each week and barely notice. It didn’t matter if Harry paid him fifty or fifty six pounds, so long as he paid him, which he would. Harry was a good sort.

It was a nerve-wracking path to tread, though, and one that Patrick couldn’t enjoy. The fear that he would lose himself and be unable to meet his gambling debts was one that kept him up at night – he had nothing left to sell that would cover a debt of any size. At the moment, his account books were groaning, and he was inches away from getting himself into irretrievable debt just to be able to feed, clothe and shelter himself and his two dependents. Thank God Megan was at school, he thought again, even though keeping her at school ate up the majority of his annual income. At least at school she was fed regularly, which was rather more than Patrick was managing to do for himself.

Still, if he won a few more pounds, he’d have scraped together enough to keep them all fed and warm for the next few months at least. With pamphlet-writing paying a pittance, playing cards for money was his only real source of income just now, even though it was uncertain and the consequences of losing were terrifying.

Most of all, he was relieved that all of his fellow gamesters were too well-breeched to notice or care how often he won. He didn’t want to gain a reputation as either a card sharp or a hardened gambler, though, he thought wryly, they’d be forgiven for that impression. He’d been playing a lot recently, and recklessly too. He really couldn’t afford to lose any goodwill his name still garnered. His father and his brother, at least, had always been respected, and he might be a blot on the family’s escutcheon, but he didn’t want to shame them utterly, either by being labelled a cheat or running the family so far into debt they’d never get out of it.

So he tried to sound as surprised as possible when he smiled at Harry. “I’m having some luck this evening, but I’m sure it won’t last,” he said pleasantly. “You’ll probably have it all back by the time I leave.”

Across the table, Sir Oliver grunted and took another gulp of port. He managed to look disapproving as he did so – Patrick was never sure how he did it, but Sir Oliver managed to radiate dissatisfaction about most things. “Are we still playing? Stump, the hand’s yours. Who’s dealer?”

It was Harry’s, and Patrick nearly said so, but Harry’s attention had been utterly lost. “My God,” he said, in tones of surprise, “is that – I didn’t know he was back in the country.”

“Say what you mean, Winston,” Sir Oliver, with some asperity, “or concentrate on the game. You can either talk or play cards – you can’t do both.”

For his part, Patrick didn’t even bother to look up. He wouldn’t know who it was anyway – outside the hell, he and Harry hardly ran in the same circles. 

Harry ignored Sir Oliver’s kind advice, and stood. “Highleyton!” he called, and Patrick paused momentarily as the name registered, but kept his eyes fixed on the cards he was shuffling. He’d insist someone else shuffle them next – just in case – but it gave him something to do while he was waiting for the hand to be dealt. 

“He’s not Highleyton yet,” Sir Oliver grunted, and Harry frowned.

“He is,” he retorted. “The old man died nearly a year ago. To be honest, I would have expected him back long before now.”

Patrick paused, then decided that his need to keep his partners sweet was greater than his own disinterest. “Where was he?” he asked, and Harry laughed.

“Where have you been? Highleyton was sent out to India six years ago by his loving papa-”

“Best thing that ever happened to that boy,” opined Sir Oliver crossly. “Was the making of him.”

“In more ways than one,” Harry agreed, grinning. “He wasn’t what you’d call poorly-breeched when we were at school, but he’s tripled the Highleyton fortune while he’s been away.”

“Cotton, wasn’t it?” Sir Oliver asked, vaguely interested.

“Oh, something like that,” Harry said airily. “I didn’t much concern myself with the details. Just the words ‘three hundred thousand pounds’ were enough to make me stop listening.”

Sir Oliver went gloomily back to his port, interest lost. “A gentleman’s got no business making that kind of money,” he said glumly.

“Well, Highleyton was never precisely what you’d call a gentleman,” Harry said with a smirk. “We all know the rumours.” Patrick didn’t know the rumours – but then Patrick didn’t especially care. “Oh, I see Sir John and his doxy have let him go. Highleyton! Over here!”

“Don’t bring him over here,” Sir Oliver hissed. “We don’t want him playing!”

“Why on earth not?” Harry demanded. “He’ll raise the stakes for us.” That was precisely what Patrick was afraid of.

“We’ve got a full game,” he said quickly. “Maybe I should leave you to it-”

But Harry wasn’t listening and he was blocking Patrick’s exit. “Highleyton, you rogue!” he said, grinning openly. “Mama was just saying we should send you a card for our next loo-party.”

“Let me guess – your sister’s old enough to marry.”

“Past old enough,” Harry said cheerfully. “She’s a dreadful flirt – you’d like her.”

Highleyton laughed. It was a nice laugh, but Patrick’s attention was fixed on the cards, impatience rising. If he didn’t leave now, he’d be trapped into a game. “Sir Oliver,” Highleyton said jovially. “I’m depending on you for details of my father’s funeral – I’m told it would have been indecent to keep him above ground till I got home.”

“You took your time coming back.”

“Well, strangely, India hasn’t got any closer since I left,” Highleyton said politely. “And I had to put everything in order till I could come away.”

“Sit yourself down and tell us about it,” Harry said, friendly. “We were just about to start another game.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” Highleyton demurred – but, Patrick thought bitterly, he’d already sat down.

“Not at all,” Harry said, waving a careless hand. “Sir Oliver you know, and this is my good friend Mr Patrick Stump.”

Patrick glanced up, met the stranger’s eyes, and was startled to realise how attractive the man was. His eyes were warm and friendly, his smile engaging if broad, and those were dangerous thoughts to have at the gaming table. He smiled briefly, and withdrew his gaze, focusing back on his hand of cards. It took a couple of seconds for the instant fizz of attraction to subside. 

“Glad to make your acquaintance,” he said, rigidly polite, and the stranger laughed. Patrick couldn’t resist glancing up at him again, then regretted it. _Cards_ , he reminded himself firmly. If he won, he could start eating lunch again.

“You sound it,” Highleyton told him. “I don’t think I’ve ever been met with such raptures.”

Patrick was almost cozened into believing himself in breach of decorum, and was on the point of apologising when Sir Oliver broke in. “Why should Stump care about you from Adam?” he demanded, his own tone implying that _he_ certainly didn’t. “He’s never seen you before in his life.”

“Well, I hope Mr Stump will come to care about me a little more when he gets to know me,” Highleyton said, and was that _flirtation_ in his voice? Patrick frowned. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had bothered to flirt with him, so he couldn’t really be sure.

“Um?” he said eloquently, and Highleyton laughed again.

“I’m sorry,” he said easily. “I’m embarrassing you. Let me make it up to you – you there!” he held a hand up, and a servant materialised at his elbow.

“My lord?”

“A bottle of Madeira, and glasses for the table,” he said.

“How generous,” Sir Oliver said resentfully, but Patrick noticed he’d already drained his glass, so he’d presumably decided to overlook any slight, imagined or otherwise.

“So, what are we playing?”

“Commerce,” Patrick ventured, pleased that he could speak without sounding like an idiot, and Highleyton smiled warmly at him.

“Excellent. Are you the dealer? I warn you, I’m terrible at this game. What are the stakes? I can’t go above a shilling a point, I warn you – I’ll lose too often.”

And that was an invitation to leave the game, if Patrick had ever heard one. Anyone who said they couldn’t play a particular game was bound to either be protected by the most astonishing beginner’s luck, or to be an expert at the game.

He made an abortive attempt to rise, but was stymied by the arrival of the madeira. A glass was poured for him, and then there was no way he could leave without staying for at least a hand. Still, he could lose a little, and still be well-in for the evening.

“Let’s say sixpence a throw,” Highleyton offered, when everyone had been served and the servant had tactfully withdrawn.

“Really?” Harry said, looking disappointed. “Let’s say a half-crown per-point.”

“Does your father know you’re spending his money like this?” Sir Oliver demanded acidly, and was ignored by everyone except Patrick, who smiled into his glass of madeira. 

“A shilling, at most,” Highleyton counteracted firmly, and Harry sighed.

“You’re all dashed dull,” he complained. “I didn’t know I was playing with such a load of old stickbums. I expect it from your, Sir Oliver-”

“Watch your tongue, boy, I’m old enough to be your grandfather,” Sir Oliver told him. He sounded almost bored.

“And so you’re too old to discipline me for it,” Harry said gaily. Patrick began to suspect Harry was drunker than he’d thought, and took a meditative sip of his own wine. 

Highleyton certainly thought so. “Come on, Winston. Deal before you can’t see the cards,” he said kindly, and smiled directly at Patrick when Patrick laughed. Having the full force of it directed at him was surprisingly distracting, and he dropped his eyes abruptly back to the table again. _Cards_ , he reminded himself viciously. 

Highleyton actually patted his hand as Harry dealt. “I don’t bite, you know,” he said, grinning.

“Not unless he’s asked,” Harry said gleefully.

“You’ve not improved since we left school, you know,” Highleyton observed impartially, though when Patrick sneaked a glance at him, he was grinning.

“I make it a point of pride,” Harry said cheerfully, stacking the cards and glancing at his own. “I’ll never grow up until Papa dies and I have to act the adult.”

“Can we get on with it?” Sir Oliver said, loudly.

“Alright,” Highleyton said easily, and pulled out a handful of shillings. “Here’s luck, gentlemen – let’s say, four shillings. And Harry, I’ll take a card.”

The game started well enough, and Patrick finished his glass on the strength of it, which was the start of his mistakes that evening. He had two Aces, and was simply looking for the third – which led to him putting shillings down with an unusual recklessness.

His glass was filled without him even realising it – he was all too aware of Highleyton on his left, talking and laughing and being generally more attractive than Patrick liked his gaming partners to be, and certainly far too distracting for Patrick’s peace of mind, or his concentration. He drained his next glass mainly to distract himself from how distracting Highleyton was being – which was a thought that made sense in his head.

He nearly dropped his cards when Highleyton turned to him, smiled, and offered a trade. He should have refused – all good sense told him to – but he found himself nodding agreeably and handing over one of his Aces.

He stared down at his hand in dismay, the moment the trade was made. All the shillings he’d spent trying to find the third Ace were useless now, and things only got worse from there on out.

At some point in the evening, another bottle of madeira was produced, and to his horror, Patrick found that he had firstly, run out of all the money he’d won from Harry and Sir Oliver combined, and had – still worse – begun playing with IOUs. He could have got up from the table with no further losses – no gain, but no loss – but he was stymied by the thought that he might have been able to win something back. He’d never have entertained the thought had he been sober, but he drank rarely, and ate too little to have much tolerance for any alcohol, let alone nearly half a bottle of strong wine.

He could see, dimly, through the alcoholic haze, Highleyton lose his warmth towards him, frown a little, and play with a set mouth, long after Sir Oliver had folded for the fourth time, and wandered away grumbling about the profligacy of youth. 

It was only when he belatedly dragged himself up to leave that he realised how drunk he actually was, and how much money he’d lost. Worry was already starting to curl in his belly, dulled by the alcohol but no less potent for all that. 

Worse still, all the warmth and respect had gone from Highleyton’s expression. He stood as Patrick went to leave, and held out a hand, his face a mask.

“Why don’t you come round tomorrow, for payment?” he said coolly, and Patrick took his hand with rising dread.

“Would tomorrow evening be agreeable?” he asked, already trying to think through the alcohol. How could he fix this?

“Perfectly, thank you,” Highleyton agreed distantly. “Will you be alright to get home? I can have a hackney called.”

“No – thank you. I’m fine.” With so much of his money already in Highleyton’s pocket, Patrick thought he would rather have crawled home in the gutter than let himself be further indebted to the man.

He regretted being so high-handed when it took him nearly an hour to get home, and it was already gone two in the morning by the time he sank into bed. He fell asleep too fast to dwell on his worries, but he knew they’d be back in full force the next morning.

**

A hundred pounds. He’d lost _a hundred pounds_ to Lord Highleyton last night. Patrick sat at his desk with his head in his hands – a hundred pounds. That was a year’s school fees for Megan, over a year’s salary for Joe and Mrs Sowerby combined, and enough money to pay for their food for god only knew how long. And he’d just frittered it all away, because of a handsome face and a few glasses of wine.

He stood abruptly and began to pace.

It was a debt of honour, so it had to be met – there was no other possible option. But how, was really the question. The family estate was long gone, sold to meet the debts the family had incurred trying to nurse Kevin back to health after his wound in the Peninsula, and his own fortune was far too small to make much difference. Even with what had been left over from the sale of Westcote, he had barely a hundred and fifty pounds a year, most of which went on Megan and keeping up with Joe and Mrs Sowerby’s wages. What little Patrick managed to earn was all spoken for months before he got it – and if he had had the wits to stand up and leave when Highleyton joined their table, he would have been – he stopped that train of thought. He had ‘if only’d since he woke up at six that morning. His spinning head and dry mouth were a reminder of just how much he’d lost, and just how much he’d drunk. 

He was never going to drink again, he thought miserably, then stopped that too. That wouldn’t help right now.

He could always touch his capital, he thought miserably. It was a dangerous temptation – if he did it once, there was nothing to stop him doing it again. But then, he really couldn’t afford to have Highleyton brand him as someone who reneged on a debt incurred at cards. If he did so, even the most vicious hells would have nothing to do with him, and cards were his surest source of income, even if they were dangerous – as he’d just proved.

He’d go to Highleyton and see what could be done – if the man was agreeable, he’d work off the debt somehow. If not, he’d take the money from his small fortune. 

**

“Joe!” he called, at five, just as it was getting dark. “I need my best clothes, and your help to look presentable.”

“It’ll take more than my help to do that,” Joe said, grinning at him, and Patrick managed a wan smile in reply. 

“Do your best,” he said weakly.

“What are you getting dressed up for anyway?” Joe asked, pulling out Patrick’s shamefully-worn clothes. “I didn’t know there was anything going on tonight that needed you to doll up for it.”

“Since when do you care what goes on in high society?”

“Since you started asking me to dress you. You haven’t done that since – well. Ever.”

“I just needed a second opinion, I suppose,” Patrick said dismally.

“Go down and ask Mrs Sowerby,” Joe said cheerfully. “She’ll always tell you you look pretty.”

“Thanks ever so,” Patrick said dryly, and let Joe hand him his coat. 

“What time should we expect you back tonight?”

“Um?” Patrick had no idea. “I don’t – don’t wait up.” A desperate thought had occurred to him – he’d heard of payment being taken in other ways, and it was one of the best options he had just now. If he could get Lord Highleyton to agree… it was shameful and degrading, and Patrick hated it, but he had very little in the way of choice.

If even that failed, he’d have to dip into his funds.

Hopefully he could avoid that.

**

Despite the best efforts of Joe – never the world’s greatest valet – and Patrick himself, there was very little they could do to hide the fact that Patrick was wearing clothes that had been fashionable perhaps four years ago, made for a larger man and starting to become threadbare with constant wear and washing. Still, the clothes, while neither fashionable nor well-fitted, were clean and respectable, and they would have to hope that Lord Highleyton would turn a politely blind eye to them. 

Joe, naturally, had no idea why Patrick was so keen to make a good impression, nor why he was going to see Lord Highleyton. He would have baulked had he known that Patrick had been staking his honour and his money to pay his and Mrs Sowerby’s wages, so Patrick had just never mentioned it. It was for the best – but Patrick wished he had someone to confide in, especially as he climbed the steps to the Wentz townhouse and rang the bell.

It would have been nice, he thought wistfully, to have had the resources of four years ago, when he would have waited in his carriage and the footman would have rung the bell. It would have been nice to make an entrance.

But then, if he’d been able to afford a carriage and a footman, he wouldn’t have been in this position, so. Squaring himself, he drew himself up to his full height as the door opened, and cast the butler a polite smile, handing him his hat and cane, and wishing they were less shabby. 

“Lord Highleyton is in the drawing room, sir,” the butler said, bowing. “May I take you through?”

After four years of Joe as his butler-come-valet-come-closest-friend, this formality was somewhat daunting. “Um. Y-Yes,” Patrick stammered. “Thank you?”

The butler unbent enough to bestow a cool smile upon him, and ushered him into the drawing room. 

**

Patrick’s first impression was one of elegance. Someone had refurbished the entire room in the latest style, with every attention to comfort without giving way to mere opulence, and Lord Highleyton – stood by the fireplace, apparently engrossed in a pamphlet – looked comfortably at home in the room. Patrick, by contrast, felt like a sore thumb. He was suddenly achingly aware of the darn in his stockings and the scuffs on his shoes which no amount of polishing could get out, somehow highlighted by the Aubusson rug which covered the majority of the room.

“Ah, Mr Stump. Come in,” Lord Highleyton said, smiling. “Would you like some port?”

“Er – thank you, but I, um. I rarely drink,” Patrick said, wrong-footed.

“Last night must have been a shock to the system,” Lord Highleyton said, with unimpeachable calm. Patrick winced at the dig. “So, how do you want to pay your debt? Banker’s draft, or do you have cash?”

Patrick swallowed. “The thing is, sir-”

“Oh, no,” Lord Highleyton sighed. “I had a feeling this might be coming. This is a debt of honour, my dear sir.”

Patrick squirmed inwardly, but squared his shoulders. “I know,” he said wretchedly, “and I’m sorry, I despise playing and not paying, and I _will_ pay-”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming,” Lord Highleyton said, going to his sideboard and pouring himself a generous measure of brandy. 

“ _But_ ,” Patrick said, “I can’t – I’m sorry, I can’t get you the money immediately.”

“Debts of honour are usually settled as soon as possible,” Lord Highleyton said flatly. “I thought everyone of a certain class was aware of that.”

For a moment, Patrick’s temper flared up at the snub, and he swallowed it down. Though it sat like lead in his stomach to do so, he admitted tonelessly, “perhaps I’m no longer of that class.”

Lord Highleyton eyed him. “Well, we find ourselves at an impasse. I’m not often charitable, Mr Stump, and I don’t think I’d like having to recognise a man who doesn’t meet his debts of honour. What do you suggest?”

Patrick felt a sinking feeling in his gut, and shut his eyes briefly. “Whatever you want,” he said dully. “I’ll do whatever you want.” Then feeling he might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, he added, “I don’t care for myself, but I’ve got a sister who’ll need what’s left of our social credit. If there’s anything I can do – anything at all… I write tolerably well and I’ve got a good mind for figures, perhaps-”

“I’m not sure I trust you with my money, Mr Stump,” Lord Highleyton said coolly.

“Of course,” Patrick said, flushing to the roots of his hair. “Then, perhaps-”

Lord Highleyton held up a hand. “I’ve got all the servants I need, and I usually prefer them to know their work,” he said, ticking the points off on his fingers. “I don’t want a companion, and I have no need of a secretary. And if I did, I would hardly pick someone with so little – ah – integrity.” He kept his eyes fixed on Patrick, so he must have seen the anger and embarrassment on his face, but if he noticed them, he gave no sign of it.

It was only the knowledge that he needed a greater favour from Lord Highleyton than he had ever needed from anyone that allowed Patrick to keep a rein on his temper. “I’m not completely without honour, sir,” he said tightly, then subsided, realising the horrible truth of his situation. “But I suppose you wouldn’t know that from our – circumstances.”

“As you say,” Lord Highleyton agreed with a bland smile. “So tell me. How do you intend to make up this debt?”

Patrick, driven to the last ditch attempt, made his first and (he hoped) last foray into prostitution. "I'm sure I could be useful in other ways, sir," he said, steeling himself. "There must be an- an arrangement which would be agreeable to us both." Lord Highleyton looked blank, and Patrick wanted to _die_. He gritted his teeth and continued, "I- I might not be the most experienced-" Lord Highleyton waived him off, and Patrick subsided gratefully.

For a long, tense moment, the room was completely silent, and Patrick steeled himself - no matter what Highleyton said next, whether he accepted or rejected the implied offer, this was going to be one of the most humiliating moments of his life. Worst, he didn't even know which kind of humiliation to hope for; either Highleyton rejected him, in which case he'd have to think up another way to work off the debt, or he accepted him, and - well.

Lord Highleyton paused for a horrible second, then nodded slowly - Patrick's stomach swooped horribly. “Be here tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Bring a change of clothes.” Patrick let out a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding, and went to thank him, but Lord Highleyton simply turned away, dismissing him without words.

It was an insult, but it was hardly the worst Patrick had stomached this evening. He bowed at Lord Highleyton’s back – and there was no one to see how he glared – and left the room.

**

Pete frowned as the door shut behind Mr Stump. It had been an unpleasant interview, and he was relieved it was over; he’d wanted to teach the man – boy, really – a lesson, but he had the uncomfortable feeling that he’d somehow kicked an already injured dog. 

He had absolutely no intention of taking the boy up on his offer, but he thought a day or so to sweat would probably teach him the lesson he clearly needed to learn, and then he could quietly return his IOUs to Mr Stump and they could meet as indifferent acquaintances. Pete might not like that the boy had played beyond his income, but he was hardly the first person to do it, and he would undoubtedly have learnt his lesson. Anyone who’d had to stomach the insults Pete had thrown at Mr Stump tonight would think twice about putting themselves in that position again.

He had to admit, though, that the boy’s final offer had surprised him. He’d known a lot of men in Stump’s position, and they had all made wild threats about their connections, or promised that they would run to money-lenders, or even blow their brains out. None of them had colourlessly offered to make up the money any other way, let alone in bed. 

Perhaps that was why Pete had such a nasty taste in his mouth about the whole business. Stump looked as though it was the last card he had left to play, a ditch attempt to avoid ruin. And what well-bred young man considered prostitution a valid alternative to a little gossip and a little loss?

Still, his reasons were none of Pete’s business. Pete just wanted to get the matter cleared up as quickly and discreetly as possible, and to make sure that young Mr Stump never found himself in a similar position with a less scrupulous man. It was practically a public service, he thought, with a grin. 

So Pete sat down to supper with a clear conscience, while the other side of town, Patrick slept with a heavy heart.

**

Patrick presented himself at the Wentz townhouse the next day carrying a small valise and wearing what had once been his second-best coat – threadbare and carefully patched, but decent enough, and in better condition than his best coat, which had suffered badly from the moths. His stomach felt like lead, and when he lifted his hand to ring the bell, it was shaking. He clenched it round the handle of his valise, and willed himself courage, so he was able to meet the butler’s eyes with a semblance of calm.

“Lord Highleyton will see you in his office, sir.” 

Patrick nodded jerkily, surprised, and irritated at being surprised. Lord, what had he expected? ‘Lord Highleyton will see you in the bedroom, sir’? He was a fool, he thought viciously to himself, and followed the butler down the hall and into a small study, well-lit with the afternoon sunlight.

“Mr Stump, sir,” the butler said, in sepulchral accents, and withdrew.

Patrick stood just inside the study, feeling like a schoolboy clutching a suitcase, almost trembling with suppressed nerves. Lord Highleyton was writing something, and Patrick stood, feeling more foolish by the second, for nearly ten minutes before he laid down his pen and turned to look at him.

A strange expression crossed his face. “Good God, man, are you quite well?” 

Patrick drew himself up, already affronted. He’d been standing there for ten minutes, half-sick with nerves, at Lord Highleyton’s leisure. And given the circumstances, it was no wonder he probably looked a little pale. “Quite well, sir,” he said tightly. “And yourself?”

Lord Highleyton looked distracted. “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he said, and then visibly eyed Patrick’s coat. “I thought we both understood you weren’t here as a servant,” he said slowly, and Patrick flushed.

“No, sir,” he said, grabbing the reins of his rapidly escaping temper, and forcing himself to speak calmly.

“Then why-” Lord Highleyton cut himself off, stood, and came towards Patrick, hand outstretched. 

God only knew Patrick hadn’t meant to, but he flinched back, and forced himself to stand still when Lord Highleyton grabbed him by the shoulder, turned his back to the light and examined the length of his coat. 

Patrick wondered whether this was the moment when he was supposed to make a lascivious comment, but the moment stretched out and was lost. Finally, at the end of his patience, he snapped, “I’m sorry if my clothes offend you, sir, I thought I was here to do something which involved none of them.”

Lord Highleyton spun him back round and blinked at him. “Yes, of course,” he said slowly. “You’re here for supper. Greta – Mrs Salpeter – will take you up to your room.”

Now it was Patrick’s turn to blink. He felt like he’d missed something. “My room,” he said slowly. “Naturally.”

Lord Highleyton rang a bell, and a pretty blonde woman appeared at the door. “My lord?”

“Take Mr Stump to his room, please, and come back. We must discuss menus.”

She dropped a curtsey, cast Lord Highleyton no very friendly look, and turned to smile at Patrick. “This way, sir,” she said cheerfully, ushering him forward and out of the room.

She led him up the main stairs to a pleasant, well-appointed room, with Indian ornaments and large windows overlooking the garden. Somewhat against his wishes, Patrick noticed that the bed was large and comfortable, with heavy brocade hangings, and he had to swallow down the nausea at the idea of what he was expected to do in that bed. Sleep probably wasn’t what Lord Highleyton had in mind, though God only knew Patrick could use some.

“I hope you won’t mind the dust, sir,” Mrs Salpeter said apologetically, and Patrick mustered up a rather hysterical smile. “The last gentleman to stay here was Lord Michael, and that was at least three weeks ago. We’ve done what we can.”

Patrick thought of his own room, now bare of everything except the bed and the chest of drawers, and rarely if ever dusted, and had to stop his hysterical smile becoming an hysterical laugh. “I’m sure I hadn’t even noticed,” he said politely, and she curtseyed, leaving him to it.

With Mrs Salpeter gone, Patrick sank down on the bed with a shaky sigh. What in God’s name was going on?

**

_Hell and confound the boy_ , Pete thought as the door shut behind Greta and Mr Stump, head resting on his desk. What had Pete got himself into?

One glance at Mr Stump in plain daylight had been a shock. The candlelight of the hell, and Pete’s drawing room last night, had softened his face and given him a rosy glow that could easily pass for health. In the afternoon sunlight, he looked gaunt and a pallor almost of illness clung to him. His coat was easily two sizes too large, and though he wore it with an air, it was patched and darned beyond anything any normal gentleman would have allowed.

There was every chance, of course, that these were the results of a compulsive gaming habit, but the panic Pete had seen in Mr Stump’s eyes in that gaming hell didn’t suggest a hardened gambler. What on earth was at the bottom of all this?

Before Pete could consider it, the door flew open it again. “Menus,” snapped Greta, marching up to the desk. Pete winced.

“I know it’s short notice,” he said apologetically, and Greta glared at him.

“It _is_ , isn’t it?” she said with false sweetness. “We were under the impression you were dining out tonight, and Mr Stump was to have something sent up to his room. ‘Nothing special’, you said. The cook’ll have a dozen fits, and there’s no fish to be had, and you’ll have to either give up the guinea-fowl you were to have tomorrow, or-”

“What’s the heartiest meal we have?” Pete asked abruptly.

Greta, used as she was to his oddities, paused. “Well, we could probably make up a fricassee of lamb, and some French potatoes?”

“Do it,” Pete ordered. “And – a good claret. I don’t care if he doesn’t bloody drink, he needs strengthening.”

If anything, Greta’s glare intensified. “I don’t know what you’re planning, my lord,” she said sternly, “but that boy’s not up to your games. I’ve never led anyone to a room in this house looking as though they were being led to the gallows.”

Pete flinched a little, remembering. “Ah, yes. Should I go up to him, do you-”

“Don’t you dare,” Greta said, pointing a finger at him. “You leave him alone. I’ll have one of the maids take him up some tea and biscuits, and a book to read. You leave him to settle in.”

“He’s not making a long stay,” Pete protested weakly. “Just a few days.”

“Hmm,” Greta said, and sighed. She’d heard that one before: Mikey, another of Pete’s ‘short stays’, had been with them a month.

“Don’t ‘hmm’ me,” Pete said, and waved her away. “I’ll behave like a model of propriety around him, you’ll see.”

**

Patrick wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t the smiling girl who brought him tea and biscuits and left him to wind himself up into an ever-tightening spiral of nerves. Was this all part of the ritual? Lord Highleyton couldn’t expect him to relax, surely, or attempt to put him off his guard: Patrick already knew exactly why he was here. Was this some kind of twisted game? Show him every courtesy as an odd sort of one-upmanship?

A book had been brought with the tea, but Patrick couldn’t concentrate. He wished he was at home, where he could have written his nerves into music – but then, if he had been at home, he wouldn’t have been nervous. 

How was he supposed to behave? He took of his coat, in case Lord Highleyton should appear suddenly (possibly out of nowhere in a puff of sulphuric smoke), and toed off his shoes, before putting them back on again. Should he lie on the bed? Stand by the bed? 

A hysterical giggle bubbled up again and he didn’t even try to choke it back down. It turned out prostitution was a great deal more complicated than he’d previously thought. 

Eventually, he lay down on the bed – he supposed he should show willing, at least – and stared up at the canopy. The misery he hadn’t let himself feel stole over him all at once, and he had to turn his face into the pillow for a moment to get a grip on himself again. The pillow was soft, and the bed comfortable, and he let himself relax. Just for a moment. He’d be ready in a moment.

Before he knew what was happening, he was asleep.

**

Pete was ushered into Gabe’s drawing room with a pleasingly servile deference he never got from his own servants, all of whom had known him for years and seemed to hold him in fond contempt. 

“Pete!” Gabe said, smiling from his chair next to the fireplace. “What brings you here?”

“A new acquisition,” Pete said, shaking his hand absently and sitting without being invited.

“Did you get Manning’s matched bays, you crafty devil?” Gabe asked, reseating himself and stretching his legs out in front of him. “You knew I wanted them.”

“Not precisely,” Pete said. “This is a two-legged acquisition.”

“Which lightskirt are you involved with now?” Gabe sighed, then frowned. “You haven’t bought a monkey, have you?”

“Only in a manner of speaking,” Pete said, and then felt dreadful. “No, that’s not fair, I just – seeing as you are the fount of all gossip in this town,” Gabe bowed from his chair, awkwardly but with a flourish, “what can you tell me about Patrick Stump?”

Something in Gabe’s face closed off. “There’s very little to tell,” he said shortly. “He’s a friend of my husband’s. I’ve known him a while: good family, good _ton_ , good man. Well-bred.”

Pete’s eyebrows rose with every pronouncement. This certainly wasn’t a description of the man he’d met. “Oh?”

“Why do you want to know? He’s no bit of muslin, Pete. You can’t have your way with him.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Pete said coolly. “We met. The boy owes me money he can’t pay.”

Gabe’s forehead crinkled in a frown. “Well, he’s not especially well-breeched, but he wasn’t born without a shirt, as the saying goes. And I never took him for a gambler – he never had a taste for it when he and Bill made their come-outs. How much does he owe you?”

Before Pete could answer, the door slammed open. “My ears are burning,” Bill said cheerfully, grinning at his husband and smiling at Pete. “Highleyton. Wentz. Pete. What a pleasant surprise. And after only six months.”

“I should have written-”

“You should, but I’ll forgive you. What has you two looking so solemn?”

Pete’s smile faded. “An acquaintance of yours owes me some money.”

“Patrick,” Gabe said, and a silent conversation took place over Pete’s head. 

Bill frowned and broke eye contact with his husband. “Oh? How much?”

“One hundred,” Pete said, feeling obscurely as though he might have betrayed Mr Stump’s trust.

“I don’t see the problem,” Bill said slowly, and Gabe glanced at him.

“Nor I,” he admitted. “Patrick’s a good sort.”

“The best,” Bill said, with unusual fierceness, and Pete frowned.

“Well, I’m confused,” he admitted. “How can a man of good ton, good breeding and good family go about in patched, darned clothes, unable to pay his gaming debts?”

From the looks on the faces of both his friends, this was news to them. “He can’t pay?” Bill said slowly.

“Then we’ll stand surety,” Gabe said instantly, and Pete waved him off.

“That’s not what concerns me,” he retorted sharply. “I asked him to call round today, and I’m sorry, but I expected you to tell me the man was dying.”

“What?!” Bill demanded, aghast. “What do you mean?”

“The boy’s ill,” Pete said bluntly. “And frankly, my boot-boy is better dressed. What’s the family situation?”

“His parents are dead,” Gabe said, when it became apparent that Bill wasn’t going to say anything at all, “and his older brother. He has a younger sister, I believe.”

“His father left debts,” Bill said quietly, “and not much else. Megan’s at school still, she’s barely sixteen. I thought Patrick had paid off the debts, but it’s been so long since I saw him... Four months at the very least.”

“Then what’s he doing gambling, if he’s no money?” Pete asked, frowning. “Were his father’s debts for gambling? Is it in his blood? What were the debts for?”

Bill looked ready to take offence, but Gabe laid a hand on his knee. “No,” he said easily. “The estate was greatly encumbered – I heard Patrick had sold it – and whatever old Mr Stump’s faults were, gambling wasn’t among them. I suppose Patrick was trying to raise some blunt. It’s an old enough trick; if you frequent one of the hells regularly enough, you get to know all the old hands and all the old cons.” He smiled briefly at his husband. “I should know.”

Pete swallowed down the lump of lead in his throat. “Thank you,” he said, when all he really wanted to do was pour out what he’d done and ask for advice. “That clears things up for me.”

He stood to leave, and Bill caught his sleeve. “If you see Patrick, tell him to visit,” he said earnestly. Pete made a noncommittal, slightly strangled noise, and made good his escape.

**

When Pete came down for dinner, he found that Mr Stump was nowhere to be seen, and he waited a full twenty minutes before he sent a servant up to his room. The thought crossed his mind that Mr Stump might have thought better of their deal and absconded – which would solve some of his problems, but do nothing to help Mr Stump’s. 

However, the maid returned within a few minutes. “Mr Stump said he’s sorry, sir, and he’ll be down shortly. He said to tell you he was indisposed.”

Pete frowned. “Did he look ill?”

The maid grinned. “No, sir. He was asleep when I knocked!”

Pete dismissed her with a faint smile. So Mr Stump was still here after all – now he could put his half-baked plan into action. 

Mr Stump appeared in the antechamber looking flushed and embarrassed, still in his awful clothes. Now that Pete knew what to look for, he could see the way the ill-fitting jacket hung off him, the tired shadows under his eyes and the way the skin stretched too tightly over his cheekbones; this was a man in need of a good meal. Several good meals. 

Hopefully, this would be the first, and Pete could see to it that he got the others. 

Part of it was guilt, he knew. He’d engineered the boy into this situation, and the least he could do was to give him some dignity getting out of it – and he had a sneaking suspicion that Mr Stump would not agree to see the debt quietly dropped. But part of it was remembering the dull misery in the boy’s voice when he offered himself up to play a gaming debt. No one should feel like that.

“Ah, Mr Stump,” he said, warmer and more friendly than he’d been so far, and he supposed he had no one but himself to blame for the uncertain look the boy gave him. “Mrs Goodwell hopes you find lamb fricassee agreeable, and perhaps you’ll join me in a glass of claret or two?”

Mr Stump clearly had no idea how to respond. “Um. That sounds – lovely?” he tried, and Pete nodded decisively. 

“Excellent! Come through, I believe dinner is served.”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” the boy said, stubbornly staying put. “I wouldn’t have been, except-”

“What’s a few minutes between friends?” Pete said genially, and Mr Stump frowned.

“We’re not friends.”

Pete supposed he deserved that. “Acquaintances, then. And a fine host I’d be if I upbraided my guests.”

“I wasn’t aware I was a guest, either,” Mr Stump said, in glacial accents. 

This was going to be an excellent meal, Pete thought grimly.

**

For the first few minutes, it was every bit as awkward as Pete had feared. Mr Stump toyed with his food, answered in monosyllables, and refused to meet Pete’s eyes at any point. The spectre of his previous offer hung between them, and made normal conversation impossible; it was only a chance reference to Mendelssohn that broke the ice.

“Please tell me you’re not a fan,” Mr Stump exclaimed, then looked as though he would have liked to bite his own tongue off.

Pete smiled. “As it happens, no. His music is too conservative for my taste. I suppose you’re not one of his devotees?”

Mr Stump shook his head firmly. “Not at all. I’ve no time for sentimental music, and his is on the soggy side of nostalgia. The melodic line is well enough, but he gets carried away and ruins it with any number of unnecessary frills.” He stopped suddenly, and looked embarrassed, for which Pete was sorry – it was the most animated he’d seen the boy all evening.

“Then whose music do you like?” he asked instead, and Mr Stump’s eyes lit up.

He was still in full flow ten minutes later, and Pete was struck by the sudden realisation that, warm and animated like this, Mr Stump was beautiful – too thin and shabby, but undeniably lovely in his enthusiasm. The offer rose to the forefront of his mind once again, this time in an entirely different light, and he stamped on it, thoroughly ashamed of himself. What was he thinking? 

It was only when the silence dragged on that he realised he’d missed some kind of cue. 

“I beg your pardon?” he asked politely, but Mr Stump flushed. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, returning to his earlier stiffness, “I got carried away.”

Pete scrambled to regain lost ground. “You’re fond of music, then?” he asked, inanely.

Mr Stump’s answering smile was a little self-deprecating. “I just talked your ear off about the genius of Mr Beethoven,” he pointed out. “I’m ‘fond’ of it, yes. My – my father was a great lover of music.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, he used to take me to concerts even when I was really too little to be out of the nursery. He always wanted me and my brother to cultivate an appreciation for it.”

“It doesn’t seem as though you had to try all that hard.”

“No – music often makes sense in a way that – nothing else does,” Mr Stump admitted, looking down at his plate. “If things go wrong, it’s the fault of the player, not the music. Music’s very solid in a way that most things aren’t.”

Pete didn’t know whether he wanted to kiss him or wrap him up and keep him forever. (Maybe he could give him an orchestra?)

“You find comfort in it, then?”

“I haven’t had the chance for a long time.” Mr Stump’s smile faded. “Though I write occasionally.” He flushed instantly, and stared down at his plate. Clearly, he hadn’t intended to admit that.

“Music?” Pete said, intrigued. He’d never met a composer before.

“Yes, music.”

“Can I see it?”

“It’s not – I don’t – it’s not really – no.” Mr Stump said finally, eyes still on his plate. 

While Pete was loath to let go of the main point – he wanted to see this music – that did draw his attention to one thing: the boy had been so busy talking, he hadn’t eaten, and his food had congealed on his plate. So instead of pressing the point, he began to talk about the music he’d heard in India, the different instruments they had and used out there and the sitar he’d brought back from Jaipur while Mr Stump ate, evidently trying to appear restrained.

When the first course was done, and dessert had been brought in, Pete sat back and watched as Mr Stump picked half-heartedly at a piece of fruit – evidently, he had eaten enough, but it was clear he wished he could eat more. 

“So,” he said carefully. “Our bargain.” The boy’s expression didn’t change, but his hands tightened reflexively on the apple he was toying with. “Why didn’t you tell me you had no money?”

Mr Stump frowned at him. “I did,” he said slowly. “That is _exactly_ what I did.”

“No,” Pete corrected patiently. “You said you couldn’t pay. I assumed – well, it doesn’t matter what I assumed. I’ve been thinking about how you can pay your debt to me without either of us losing face.”

Mr Stump looked at him, guarded. “Oh?”

“No one need know what happens behind these walls,” Pete said carefully, “and I am in need of a social secretary. In public, naturally, you would be a close friend, helping me find my feet again in London after so many years in India.”

“And in the house?” 

Pete shrugged. “We’ll see how it goes.”

He didn’t expect Mr Stump to think of him as a close friend immediately, if at all, but in public, they had to give some explanation for his staying close to Pete: the facade would have to be maintained. In private, however, it didn’t matter so much what the boy thought of him. 

It was the best solution Pete could come up with.

**

Internally, Patrick winced. Some small part of him had been hoping that this was a one-night arrangement; instead, Lord Highleyton seemed to want to draw out the torture indefinitely. From what he understood, he was supposed to be a friend in public and a whore in private – but then, he supposed he had very little choice. And at least, he thought miserably, in Wentz House he’d be fed and heated at someone else’s expense, even if the money he saved would have to go towards paying his gambling debt. 

He left his apple, and stared dully ahead until Lord Highleyton cleared his throat.

“I know you’re not fond of port, so perhaps I could meet you in the drawing room?” And what could Patrick do, but bow and nod and leave?

He made his way into the drawing room and sat down with stiff formality on the edge of one of the chairs. When it became apparent that Lord Highleyton intended to take his time over the port, and wasn’t suddenly going to burst in on him, he relaxed by increments, letting himself slump back against the velvet.

He shot upright when a servant bustled in with the tea-tray, smiled, bobbed a curtsey and left. Patrick only just had time to smile back before the door shut and he was alone again.

Bereft of options, he poured himself a cup of tea and took sugar just for the luxury of it, even though he never took sugar in his tea. He remembered precisely why when he took a sip, pulling a face – but years of austerity made it impossible for him to take another cup, and anyway, sugar was a long-lost indulgence, and he was determined to take full advantage of it. Looking round the drawing room, he couldn’t suppress the pang of nostalgia. Lord Highleyton’s house was a grander model of Patrick’s own, back in the days when he’d been able to afford luxuries like these. Lord Highleyton’s velvet-covered chairs were plushly new, where Patrick’s father’s had been worn and loved by at least a generation of children, and Lord Highleyton’s books were certainly less battered than the ones Patrick’s father had had, but in essentials it was almost exactly the same. A bookshelf covered one wall; the fire flickered over chairs that hadn’t yet had time to age into sagging comfort, and wonder of wonders, an enormous grand piano stood by the window.

Patrick eyed it, his fingers itching, then deliberately made his way over to the bookshelves. Lord Highleyton’s books were of a fashionable turn – every latest literary craze was in evidence, from Lord Byron to Miss Burney, all handsome leather-bound copies which (Patrick knew) cost as much as eighteen shillings each. He had no idea whether his new role would give him time for reading, but if he had a moment to spare, he’d certainly be borrowing from this collection. Absently, his eyes wandering over to the piano again, he wondered if Lord Highleyton had a library.

Determinedly ignoring his desire to play the piano, he selected one of the books that caught his eye – a new novel by Miss Edgeworth, and interesting enough. He settled down, as much as he could with one eye on the door, to read. It had been ages since he read a new book.

That didn’t stop his eyes straying to the piano. When he realised he’d read the same sentence three times, he shook himself and made himself pay attention. He _liked_ reading, and God only knew he hadn’t had any time for it for at least a year. He should make the most of the opportunity.

Half an hour passed, though, and he was already regretting the time he’d wasted not playing the piano. Clearly, Lord Highleyton had either drunk himself into a stupor and was passed out in the dining room, or he’d never intended to join Patrick at all. It was almost certainly safe to play the piano – there’d be no one to hear him but the servants, and even Patrick wasn’t paranoid enough to think they’d report back instantly to their employer.

He put down the book, and stared at the piano for a moment, before standing decisively and moving over to the instrument. Even then, he hovered for a moment before lifting the lid and sitting down, spreading his fingers over the keys without making a sound.

A beat of silence passed, and then, tentatively, he began to play.

**

Pete, meanwhile, had only intended to stay with the port for twenty minutes, but Greta had appeared and he had been waylaid into justifying his actions as regarded Patrick for at least half an hour before she was satisfied. Then he’d taken ten minutes to “enjoy his port” (or, more accurately, get his courage up), before he ventured into the drawing room.

He’d been expecting to find an irate or bored guest waiting for him, but instead, pausing just outside the door, he heard the piano – someone was expertly playing Schubert. It was better music than Pete had heard in a while, and Pete was never absent from the very best concerts, so he stilled outside, one hand on the handle, just listening. It was music that was a pleasure to hear; there was joy in this playing.

And there was only one person who could be doing it. 

He knew the moment he entered the room, Mr Stump would stop playing, so he hesitated before opening the door, creeping inside and feeling like a thief in his own house.

He needn’t have worried: Mr Stump seemed completely absorbed, fingers flying over the keys, playing with his entire body, mind completely focused on the piano. He certainly didn’t notice Pete sidle in, and sat himself, angled to watch him.

If he’d been lovely at dinner, he was beautiful now. Pete watched him play, appreciating the skill of the player and the beauty of the music in silence. He wished Mr Stump looked this relaxed and this animated all the time – still, there was time enough for that later. For now, Schubert was being played, and played well.

Pete stayed silent until Mr Stump had finished, and then clapped – which turned out to be a mistake. Mr Stump started and instantly looked nervous, pulling back from the keys and tangling his fingers together in his lap.

“That was fantastic,” Pete said sincerely. “Do you play often?”

“Um,” Mr Stump said, and looked down, silent for a long moment. “Not as much as I’d like,” he said carefully, and Pete nodded. He suspected that there was some barrier in the way of his playing regularly – did he even have access to a piano? – but Mr Stump was hardly likely to admit the full extent of his difficulties to Pete. 

“You should play all the time,” Pete said, instead of insisting that his new houseguest Confess All. “Why haven’t I heard you before?”

“Probably because we move in very different circles, _my lord_ ,” Mr Stump said, and then looked horrified at his own daring.

“Not so different – I find we have friends in common,” Pete said, smiling at him. “Viscount Felson and his husband. Bill and Gabe?”

Mr Stump twitched a little on the piano stool, hands twitching towards the piano and back down into his lap. “I wasn’t aware that you knew them,” he said noncommittally. “Are you close friends?”

“Closer to them now than you, I think,” Pete said cheerfully. “I understand you’ve not seen them in a while? They were most keen that you visit.”

“I daresay they were,” Mr Stump said blandly, but offered no further information. There was a pause, and finally, Mr Stump broke it, saying, “If I’m to be your social secretary, my lord, I should know what parties you’ll wish to go to and which you’ll wish to avoid. I’ll need a list of your friends and acquaintances, based on preference and how much you enjoy their company – I’ll need to know what kind of social gathering you enjoy and which you hate-”

Clearly, Mr Stump had put more thought into this than Pete. “That can wait,” he said airily – it could certainly wait until he had an idea what a social secretary _actually did_. “Why don’t we- I mean, we could- are there any events you particularly recommend I go to? Or which you yourself would like to attend?”

Mr Stump looked down. “There are some interesting concerts coming up,” he offered. “If you told me which composers and artists you liked, I could draw up a list…”

“Put me down for all of them,” Pete said airily. “You can always go and give me your impressions. Then I’ll have an opinion on all of them, and never be behind on the latest new arrival, the latest _on-dits_. How does that sound?”

“Nothing at all like the job of a secretary,” Mr Stump said dryly. “But if it’s what you want…”

“It is,” Pete said firmly. He’d seen the way Mr Stump’s eyes brightened at the mention of concerts.

“I am an entirely at your disposal,” Mr Stump said without inflection, though Pete had already caught the glimmer of enthusiasm. 

“I believe Mr Clementi is playing at the Queen’s Concert Halls,” he offered, and Mr Stump bowed and stood. “Oh, no,” Pete said, before he could stop himself. “Do play something else.”

Mr Stump eyed him for a long, silent moment, and reseated himself. “I’m not used to playing for an audience,” he said slowly, and Pete grinned.

“You should be,” he said easily. “Play me a ballad.”

“Do you have a favourite you like to sing?” Mr Stump asked, and Pete snorted.

“You wouldn’t want me to sing,” he promised. “Why don’t you sing? I’m fairly sure that we’ve got the music for every ballad and ditty you’ve ever heard – they were my mother’s passion.”

“I really don’t sing,” Mr Stump said flatly, and Pete shrugged. 

“Well, I won’t force you,” he said, “but since the only other option is me…”

“I’m sure you underestimate your talents, my lord,” Mr Stump said, and Pete, used to being flattered by every matchmaking mama in a twelve-mile radius, could hear the doubt in his voice.

“Alright,” Pete said, steeling himself. “Do you know _The Little Turtle-Dove_?”

Mr Stump eyed him. “Yes, I know that damned song. Even I’ve been at parties where the poor girls are sat down at the piano and made to sing the bloody thing.”

“Not that you’re bitter,” Pete said, surprising a smile out of his guest. 

“Not at all,” he agreed politely. “Shall we?”

“Let’s. Though, I warn you,” he added, over the introductory bars, “the lyrics I know are a good deal less clean than the version sung in drawing rooms.” Mr Stump raised an eyebrow and he shrugged, smiling. “Sailors.” He launched into the first verse, grinning in triumph when Mr Stump stopped completely, a look of alarm on his face.

“But how-”

“I’m assured it’s a metaphor,” Pete said, straight-faced.

“I meant your voice,” Mr Stump corrected him, evidently without thinking, and then went scarlet. “I mean – I shouldn’t have – sorry?”

“I warned you,” Pete said cheerfully. “Now I’ve proved my ineligibility, you’ll just have to sing for me.”

Mr Stump pulled a face, but played the introductory bars again. “I don’t normally sing,” he said again, and then proceeded to sing _like an angel_. Pete took a moment to reflect on the arbitrary unfairness of life, because Mr Stump’s voice didn’t just belong in drawing rooms, it belonged in concert halls. Then he settled back to listen.

It took all his (rather tenuous) grasp on politeness to merely clap rather than jumping up and down demanding an encore.

“Remind me again why you don’t sing?” he asked, and Mr Stump flushed a little. 

“Singing in public is nerve-wracking,” he said rather stiffly. “I prefer to hide behind an instrument.” He eyed him momentarily and added reluctantly, “and I used to sing for my mother. After she died… the appeal died with her.”

Even Pete wasn’t enough of a bastard to press that one. “Do you play the piano often?” he asked, and Mr Stump shrugged.

“Not as much as I’d like,” he said, and offered no further explanation.

Pete sat back in his chair and regarded for a long moment. “So, Mr – no. I’m sorry, if you’re to spend any length of time with me, I can’t keep calling you Mr Stump. It’s one of my little quirks. My many quirks, in fact. And we’re to be great friends.” Pete grinned to himself; this friendship was to be for the benefit of the public, but he’d already decided that there was no great likelihood of his letting Mr Stump go in the near future. “What may I call you?”

“Mr Stump,” Mr Stump said repressively. Then, after a brief pause, he added, “if you don’t mind, Lord Highleyton,” blatantly for the sake of formality.

“Oh please,” Pete pleaded. “You could call me Highleyton to be informal, but if I called you ‘Stump’, that would sound ridiculous.” He shut his mouth hastily after that, fearing he’d been impolite. The last thing he wanted was a return to the rigid formality of their pre-dinner discussion; Mr Stump’s punishments were surprisingly effective. 

“Thank you,” the boy said tartly, then relented. “Patrick. You can call me Patrick.”

“Pete.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s my name,” Pete said patiently. “If you’re really set on formality, you can call me ‘Highleyton’, but scarcely anyone calls me that, and I probably wouldn’t realise you were talking to me. And ‘Wentz’ is even worse than ‘Stump’.” Was that the flicker of a smile? Pete decided it was, and beamed back.

“That’s going to take some getting used to,” Mr Stump - _Patrick_ , Pete thought and suppressed a gleeful squirm – said slowly. “But if it’s what you want…”

“It is - _Patrick_.”

**

This whole thing was getting out of hand, Patrick decided. Lord Highleyton – “Pete”, he reminded himself with a sigh – had no business being endearingly fond of music, or indeed painfully complimentary. He certainly had no business making Patrick smile. And who, he asked himself, spent so much time charming someone they knew to be a sure thing? Lord Highleyton ( _Pete_ ) had made their situation perfectly clear.

Before they’d parted for the night, Lord – Pete had expressed an earnest desire to be friends. Firstly, Patrick wasn’t entirely sure of the etiquette in their situation, but he was pretty sure that well-born, well-breeched young men didn’t usually offer plain friendship to their doxies, and secondly, while it was possible that Pete was short on friends, having just returned from India, it didn’t seem likely. 

Still, Patrick wasn’t in any position to refuse.

He wasn’t sure he would have done, even if he’d been able to. He only wished that he had met Pete in different circumstances. 

Also in Pete’s favour was the fact that he’d never so much as alluded to their agreement since he discovered Patrick’s true circumstances. Whether that was out of a desire to keep him on his toes, or a hither-to unseen sense of delicacy, Patrick wasn’t sure, but it meant he did at least feel comfortable taking his book upstairs with him and relaxing in front of the fire in his bedroom. A maid came in with a warming pan for the bed and asked if he’d like anything before he went to bed – these were luxuries he hadn’t experienced in years. 

The only problem was Joe, still back home – by tomorrow night, he’d probably wondering where Patrick was. Patrick’s last conscious thought before falling asleep was that he should send for Joe. If he was to make an extended stay with Lord- Pete, he’d need a valet, and he and Joe could probably put up a decent pretence.

**

He woke to daylight flooding into the room and gave a squeak of dismay. He’d fallen asleep, fully-clothed, in the chair, and the book had tumbled out of his hands onto the floor. Worst: some of the pages had bent.

He scrambled to put his clothes to rights, hastily splashing warm water on his face and wincing at the realisation that someone had been in recently, and seen him asleep in the chair. When he went downstairs, however, he found he needn’t have bothered: the breakfast room was deserted. He briefly panicked that Pete had come and gone, and would be fuming somewhere at Patrick’s laziness and impropriety. That qualm was settled, however, when the housekeeper, Mrs Salpeter, appeared.

“Mr Stump,” she said, beaming. “You’re up early!”

“Am I?”

“It’s barely eight, sir,” she said, and grinned at him. “Did you sleep well?”

Patrick flushed. “I’m so sorry,” he said weakly, and she laughed. It was a lovely laugh.

“Not at all, sir, it’s nice to have a guest who actually sleeps, particularly in his own room,” she said merrily, then went scarlet. “Er. Not that I’m – oh dear.” She cast him an apologetic, somewhat spoiled by her grin. “Lord Highleyton lets most of us get away with murder. Though not literally.” She paused then added ruminatively, “not yet. Breakfast won’t be ready until eight, though, sir. Perhaps you’d like someone to bring you up some tea?”

“Um, no, it’s – I’d hate to make more work,” Patrick said, long used to thin porridge and tea which was on its third or fourth steeping, and well-aware of how much work it took to serve food anywhere other than the kitchen. He’d stopped bothering with such niceties about two years ago, at least when his sister was at school. “When will Lord Highleyton be down?”

“Pete – that is, Lord Highleyton, doesn’t normally come down for breakfast. He says being up before noon is the work of the devil.” Mrs Salpeter’s tone implied a battle long-fought.

“That’s fine,” Patrick said, unable to give voice to just how little of a problem that was. “I’m quite used to breakfasting alone.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll have the servants lay everything out as quickly as possible,” she smiled.

“Oh, please don’t rush,” he said, awkward. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

She favoured him with an indulgent look. “It’s no trouble,” she said sincerely, and he bowed a little.

“Oh, I see,” came a voice from the stairs, “it’s only trouble when _I_ want something done.”

Greta looked a little startled. “My lord,” she said, staring at him. “You’re – up. And alive. You do know it’s not eleven yet, don’t you?”

“I have been known to rise early,” he said, offended.

“Not since your mother was here to drum you out of bed,” she retorted. “What are you playing at?”

“I’m not playing at anything,” Lord Highleyton told her blithely. “I’m merely hoping to make the most of the day.”

“Very well, my lord,” she said, in clipped tones that broadcasted her suspicion. “Breakfast will be ready shortly.”

She left, leaving Patrick and Lord Highleyton alone together.

After a monumentally awkward pause, Lord Highleyton favoured him with a friendly smile. “I hope you slept well?”

Remembering his night in the chair, Patrick flushed. “Very well, thank you,” he said, without looking at him. “I hope you didn’t rise early on my account.”

“Not a bit,” Lord Highleyton said, just a shade too heartily.

“Because,” Patrick stumbled on, just for something to fill the encroaching silence, “Mrs Salpeter said you don’t like to be up at this time of day.”

“Mrs Salpeter doesn’t know everything,” Lord Highleyton said rather sharply.

“No. No, of course not.” Patrick could feel himself flushing and cursed his pale complexion. “Um. Sorry?”

Lord Highleyton waved off his apology. “Sorry. I’m not human till I’ve breakfasted. Shall we?”

“Of course. Um. After you?”

Breakfast was so awkward Patrick could barely bring himself to eat, hoping that something would offer him an occasion to leave the room. Despite the thawing of relations the night before, Patrick couldn’t forget why he was here, and in the light of day, the shabbiness of his clothes – the same as yesterday – was frankly embarrassing against the luxury of his surroundings. Worse, Lord Highleyton had clearly noticed – Patrick had seen his glance in the hallway, and noted his eyes lingering on Patrick’s threadbare, ink-stained cuffs and scuffed shoes. Worst of all, though, were his memories of the night before: he’d sat himself down at Lord Highleyton’s piano without a word of invitation, mocked his singing and then, worst of all, allowed himself to be finagled into singing himself. He’d behaved like an _idiot_.

Certainly, Lord Highleyton was treating him with a degree of reserve, as well he might, and a horrible thought struck him: what if Lord Highleyton had expected Patrick to come to his room last night? He hadn’t alluded when they’d gone up to bed, but perhaps that had been Patrick’s job? God, he had no idea. Perhaps Lord Highleyton had expected him to get the sordid job done and leave? And yet, here he was. Was he supposed to leave today?

“Mr Stump?”

And then, to add insult to injury, he’d clearly missed a conversational cue. “Sorry?” he said, dragging himself away from his increasingly panicked thoughts.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Um?”

“I’m terribly sorry, but business calls me away today. I hope you’ll be able to find something to do today – I should be back in time for dinner. I’ve instructed Greta to look after you. I’m sorry.”

Patrick’s heart sank – clearly, he wouldn’t be making his escape today. “No, no,” he said quickly. “It’s fine. I’m. There’s lots for me to do.”

**

And that was a lie, if ever Pete had heard one. He frantically tried to kick his thoughts into motion, and vowed, not for the first time, that he would _get up earlier_ from now on.

He just wasn’t _awake_ right now.

“Excellent,” he said lamely. “Well, I should – I’d better – go. Um. Just – tell Greta if there’s anything you need?” He was already standing, and Mr Stump scrambled hastily to his feet with a clatter of cutlery. Pete couldn’t help but notice that he’d barely been eating. “See you tonight.”

Mr Stump bowed. He actually bowed. 

Pete fled.

He bumped into Greta in the hall. “Where are you going?” she demanded, leaving off her tirade at the second footman.

Pete pulled a face. “To my club. I’ll be there all day.”

Greta gave him a severe look. “I hope you’re not planning anything stupid.”

“I think I already did that,” Pete muttered, and made good his escape.

**

It was one of the weirdest days of Patrick’s life. All he had to do was mention a whim for it to be instantly gratified. He learnt that he didn’t even need to address anyone directly for them to go off in search of whatever it was he’d mentioned, and he spent most of the morning calling people back and assuring and reassuring them that he’d just been thinking out loud. Eventually he was so cowed by this excessive attention to his wishes, he retreated to his room and hid.

Had he really become so unused to servants that this seemed strange? Or was Lord Highleyton’s house an anomaly? Certainly his parents’ servants hadn’t acted like this when he was a child – he’d been more likely to receive a clip round the ear than acquiescence. Maybe it was just company that unnerved him; after months rattling around in his house with only Joe and Mrs Sowerby for company, it was no wonder he might have gone a bit mad. And with his (admittedly dubious) virtue strung up over his head like the sword of Damocles, he could probably be forgiven for being a little on-edge. 

He did manage to venture down to the library without being seen at about eleven, and he picked another book to pass the time. It worked – the knock on his door at lunchtime startled him so much that he dropped the book.

“Um. Come in?” he called, and Greta poked her head round the door with a friendly smile.

“It’s lunchtime, sir,” she said, friendly. “Are you coming down?”

“Is it all set out?” he asked awkwardly. Frankly, he didn’t want to leave the nice safe enclave of his room.

“Yes,” Greta said, with only the faintest impression of a raised eyebrow.

“I’ll be right down,” he said weakly, defeated.

He was initially shamefully relieved to find the table only set for one, but swiftly realised it was going to be just as awkward. For one, without Pete there to talk to, he was going to have to sit there in silence, and further, all the attention was on him. He couldn’t quite suppress the paranoid fear that the footmen were noting his every move and would report back to their master. ‘Subject ate with his fingers and shows only the rudiments of good manners. Clearly very bad _ton_ and completely unsuitable for debauchery.

On second thoughts, perhaps he should dispense with manners altogether and pitch himself face-forward into the soup.

He felt so awkward he could barely eat, and stood up as soon as he could, looking guiltily down at his half-untouched food. 

“Sorry,” he said apologetically, to a point in the middle distance a little above the nearest footman’s left shoulder. “It was delicious; I just don’t feel very well. Would you thank the cook for me?”

The footman unbent enough to grin at him. “Of course. She’ll be delighted to hear it.”

“Thank you,” Patrick said, and retreated as fast as politeness would allow.

**

By mid-afternoon, even his book couldn’t hold his interest, and he found his thoughts drifting more towards the piano downstairs, and how good it had been to play again last night. While Lord Highleyton was out, it was probably safe to play it – he hadn’t been told he _couldn’t_. And, he reasoned, it would be a waste not to. He’d leave in a week or two – once the Dreadful Deed was done and Lord Highleyton had got bored of him, which was bound to happen, despite all his talk of keeping Patrick on as a social secretary – and he wouldn’t be able to play. It would be stupid not to take advantage of it, particularly when he had a golden opportunity like this one. How often was Lord Highleyton going to leave him alone in the house with nothing to do?

Feeling like a thief, he crept downstairs, letting himself into the drawing room as quietly as possible. Once he started playing, everyone would know, so for a while he amused himself by going through the music cabinet, clearly dating from before the present Lord Highleyton had gained the title, and full of yellowing sheets of music of the type Patrick could remember his mother playing. He’d just selected a piece when Greta appeared, and jumped, apparently as surprised to see Patrick as Patrick was to see her.

“Oh!” she said. “You’re here! I just sent Hayley up to your room to ask if you’d like some tea. She’s probably still knocking.”

“I’m so sorry-” Patrick began, and she waved him off with a gesture disconcertingly like Lord Highleyton’s. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, amused. “She’ll come down when she gets hungry. _Would_ you like some tea?”

“No, no – I’m fine,” he tried, and she frowned.

“You hardly ate lunch, and Mrs Glass has made seed cake. Why don’t I bring you some up?”

“I don’t want to be any trouble,” he said, feeling like it was becoming a constant refrain.

Greta gave him a long look. “It’s literally our job,” she pointed out. “And Lord Highleyton would probably be unhappy if he thought you went without just to make our lives easier. So I’ll bring you something up. Maybe a sandwich.”

“Er,” Patrick said hesitantly, glancing at the piano.

“I’ll bring it here,” she offered. “You can still play. Um,” for a bizarre moment, she looked wrong-footed. “I hope you don’t mind, but it sounded lovely last night.”

“Thank you?” Patrick said, startled. “I haven’t played for about a year. Our piano-” he’d been about to say ‘had to be sold’, and changed it abruptly to, “was damaged.”

“That’s a shame. You should definitely play this one as much as you can – God knows his lordship can’t play for toffee. He had all the lessons, but I think I benefitted from them more than him.”

“Oh, do you play?” Patrick asked, perking up. 

She shrugged. “A bit.”

“Please do,” he gestured to the stool, and she flushed, definitely off-balance now.

“Um? I probably shouldn’t, I have about eighty things to do this afternoon.”

Patrick backed down instantly. “Of course. But maybe later? When you have less to do?” he felt a little desperate. “I used to teach a little,” he said diffidently. “I miss it, a bit. Hearing other people play, interacting with music. Maybe – some other time?”

She sighed. “Just this once, alright? I’m really not very good.”

Greta was good. Greta was _really_ good. Patrick watched her hands on the keys, hesitant at first, then more confident as she remembered the music. When she finished, he clapped without artifice.

“That was fantastic,” he said sincerely. Greta pulled a face.

“I’m not as good as I used to be. Rusty.” She stood, shaking out her fingers. “I never have time anymore.”

“That’s a shame. You’re so good. Does – I mean – is Lord Highleyton as good as you?” If so, Lord Highleyton had definitely been humouring him last night.

“Oh, he’s not nearly as good as me,” she said blithely. “He wouldn’t practise as a child. And he was never made to practise. That’s why I got lessons – they thought a healthy dose of competition might inspire him.” She paused, and grinned. “It didn’t. So they made him do boxing instead. He sat in the middle of the ring and cried until he was allowed to leave.” She gave him a conspiratorial look. “He was only seven, but I’ve never let him forget it. Come on, now, it’s your turn.”

“I’m not boxing anyone,” Patrick said automatically, and she laughed, pushing him gently towards the piano.

“Against me? I should hope not. I like a harder fight. No, I played for you, turnabout’s fair play.”

“Fine, but don’t judge me to your standards,” Patrick warned her, and set the yellowing music on the stand.

When he finished, she gave him an odd look. “Have you played that before?”

“No,” he said apologetically, “that’s why it was a bit ropey.”

“Hm,” said Greta, and shrugged. “Well, I’m really glad I played first.” She grinned. “We should do this again sometime.” She nudged his shoulder gently. “Second drawer down in the cabinet is duets. I’ll go and see about that tea, shall I?”

“Greta,” he called, when she reached the door. “Is there anything I could do? Letters I could write for Lord Highleyton, I don’t know, _anything_?”

She gave him an odd look. “Mr Stump-”

“ _Please_ call me Patrick.”

“ _Patrick_ \- you’re here as a guest. Even if there _was_ anything for you to do, I wouldn’t ask. And there isn’t. I run a tight ship.” Seeing his face fall, she capitulated. “I’ll talk to Lord Highleyton for you, if you like?”

Patrick couldn’t think of anything worse – God only knew what Lord Highleyton would dream up for him to do, and Patrick wasn’t going to hasten his descent into paid sex. “No, it’s fine,” he said quickly. “As long as no one minds me playing the piano.”

She gave him a strange look. “You can do what you like, so long as it’s not in his lordship’s office. Or his bedroom, I suppose.” Patrick felt his face turn scarlet, and Greta winced. “Sorry, that was probably a bit – I’ll just go.”

So long as Greta never found out just how close to the mark she was… Patrick put it out of his mind. Right now, there was a piano and a whole afternoon all to himself.

**

Greta greeted Pete with a disapproving look. “I hope you’ve had a good day,” she said frostily.

“Not so bad,” Pete said, lying merrily. His day had been long and dull, and there’d been no one at his club to make it worthwhile being there – just the older generation, all keen to remind the young upstart Highleyton how big a pair of shoes he had to fill.

“Well, I wish I could say the same for your guest,” Greta said frankly. “He’s been too polite to say, but he’s been bored. Pete, what on earth are you supposed to be doing with him, if you don’t actually want to spend time with him?”

Pete made an inarticulate sound of misery and flopped into the nearest chair. “I don’t know, he just doesn’t seem to like my company,” he said petulantly, then trailed off. There was no way he was going to tell Greta _why_ Mr Stump didn’t like his company. He wasn’t suicidal.

“Then why did you invite him?” she asked tartly.

“He’s a friend of Gabe’s,” he said evasively. There – he hadn’t been lying. It wasn’t the _truth_ , but he hadn’t been lying.

“The Felsons have a lot to answer for,” Greta said stiffly. Pete was fairly sure she was remembering the time Gabe and Bill had sent him home absolutely wasted and left him slumped on his own front doorstep at three in the morning after one of their parties. She had yet to forgive them. “But so do you. Try and be a good host? I know it’s taxing.”

“Alright,” he said, long-suffering. “When’s dinner?”

“Eight o’clock, as normal,” she told him. “Try and sparkle.”

“Oh, I do,” Pete told her, and she smiled at him as she whisked out of the room.

He bolstered his spirits as much as possible, but in the end it proved futile – Mr Stump had the headache, and did not come down from his room.

**

The next morning, Pete childishly decided to give Mr Stump a taste of his own medicine, and stayed in bed.

He only ventured downstairs at about eleven o’clock, when he was quite sure the coast would be clear. A footman informed him that Mr Stump had gone into the garden about twenty minutes ago, staring straight ahead in a way that made his disapproval quite clear without needing to resort to words.

Unsurprising: it was a disapproval Pete shared. “It’s _March_ ,” he said in horror, and the footman clearly dearly wanted to shrug.

“Yes, sir,” he said blandly, and Pete sighed and headed into the dining room. At least he’d be able to breakfast without awkward silences.

**

All-in-all, despite staying in all day, he saw very little of his guest. By dinner, the situation had begun to resemble a bad farce, all hastily shut doors and furtive glances round corners, and Pete had had more than enough of it.

“This is ridiculous,” he told the jugged hare and the empty room. “What does he _eat_? _Does_ he eat?” The jugged hare didn’t venture an opinion. “Enough’s enough,” Pete told it anyway. “Greta?!”

“What?”

“Have you seen Mr Stump at all today?”

“Yes? He gets up at a normal time like a normal human being. I saw him at breakfast.”

“And I saw him at lunch. Did anyone see him in between meals?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, apparently supremely unconcerned. “He keeps himself to himself. And, forgive me, _my lord_ , but you haven’t exactly given him much reason to do otherwise.”

Pete stabbed moodily at a piece of hare. “Fine, fine,” he said sulkily. “Ask him to come and see me tomorrow, would you please? After breakfast.”

“Alright. Where?”

“In my rooms?” Pete said, frowning. That was a stupid question. “I’m hardly going to be up before him, am I?”

“Small hope,” Greta agreed. “Did you want anything else?”

“No. In fact, I’m going out. I’ll see you tomorrow – don’t wait up.”

“I never do. Tell Viscount Felson I want you home sober this time.”

**

When Patrick woke the next morning, it was to a leaden feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. The day stretched before him, empty except for a few books and a couple of hours snatched on the piano when he could be sure that Lord Highleyton wouldn’t be able to hear him.

He thought guiltily of Joe, still at home and probably wondering where he was, but having to assume all the duties that were normally Patrick’s job – save the accounts, which Patrick kept safely hidden so Joe wouldn’t have to know how badly off they really were. Then again, if Lord Highleyton was intent on keeping him here, he’d find out soon enough anyway.

He threw the covers back and made to get dressed, wincing when he realised he’d have to actually use his change of clothes. They were even shabbier and more threadbare than his original set, and he knew he was already the poorest dressed person in the house. Mild shabbiness could be passed off as eccentricity or lack of care, but this was taking it too far. Patrick was at least ninety percent sure he looked like a scarecrow. 

Nevertheless, he squared his shoulders, pulled on his worn-out clothes, and headed down to breakfast, head as high as he could.

Greta met him in the hall. “Good morning, sir. It’s a beautiful day. And you’re up early, as always.”

“Um. Yes,” Patrick agreed. Greta hadn’t so much as glanced at his clothes, which gave him confidence.

“Breakfast’s ready, but I doubt his lordship will be down for it – he had a late night last night. We’ll probably be lucky if he’s down before lunch. But he left instructions that you were to go up to his room when you’ve breakfasted.”

Patrick internalised his flinch. If Lord Highleyton wasn’t likely to get up before noon and wanted to see Patrick when he was breakfasted… that didn’t bode well. There was every chance that this was it.

Still, that wasn’t a concern he could share with Greta. “Thank you,” he said weakly, and she gave him a worried look. 

“Are you alright, sir?”

“Perfectly well,” he said, straining after polite unconcern. “I’m just going to use the drawing room for a few minutes – there are a couple of letters I have to write.” Anything to put off the inevitable.

He really did have letters to write – he’d promised himself yesterday that he’d send for Joe, who was probably climbing the walls. Of course, sending for Joe meant telling him exactly why Patrick was here, and this was not a confrontation that was likely to go down well. But then, it wouldn’t get any better for putting it off. He’d thought about lying, but he’d never been able to keep anything from Joe, and retribution would only get worse the longer he kept the secret.

_Dear Joe_ , he wrote. _It seems I’ll be making an extended stay with Lord Highleyton, and I’ll need you here to keep up appearances. You know there won’t be much in the way of actual work here – certainly far less than at home – but it would only give rise to gossip if you aren’t here. Come as soon as you can; I’ll see that you have a room waiting._ He paused, biting the tip of the quill absently, then dipped it back in the ink, adding, _bring your best clothes. It’s a shame none of mine will fit you, but I daresay yours are in better condition anyway._

He signed, sealed and addressed it, then sat back. He was hungry, but that was no different to most days, and he could wait until breakfast – he had no wish wander into the breakfast room too early and disturb the servants in the middle of laying everything out. His book was upstairs, and he’d already forbidden himself the piano – casting around for something to do, he took another sheet of the hot-pressed paper (a luxury he hadn’t been able to afford for a year or more now) and began a letter to his sister.

_My dearest Megan,_

_I hope you are well and enjoying school,_ he wrote, then paused, wondering what he could possibly tell her. ‘Your brother has hired himself out as a prostitute to pay a gaming debt. Don’t worry, though, my employer is a very wealthy man. See you at Christmas, all my love, Patrick’. Yes, that would go down so well. Laboriously, he trimmed the pen, dipped it in ink and added, _We are all well here, and Mrs Sowerby and Joe both send their love. If you wish to write to me, I am making a stay with a friend of mine, Pete – or Lord Highleyton. I expect to be here for some months, so it will be best if you write to me at 6, Brunswick Square, London._

_I am enjoying my stay here,_ he lied flagrantly. _Lord Highleyton is a new friend of mine_ , stretching the truth, _but very kind._ He only hoped that that wouldn’t be a lie. _You know we had to get rid of our piano because it was starting to fail and we have yet to replace it,_ one of the many, many lies he had told his sister about their circumstances, and he barely even felt guilty about it anymore, _but Lord Highleyton has an excellent one here, and I am very much enjoying playing it. He is an atrocious singer, but a great lover of music. I am sure that we will get on very well._

_Write to me and tell me how you are getting on at school. How are your friends? Give my regards to Lady Elizabeth, and ask her again to thank her parents for me. It was so kind of them to invite you to Calverleigh for Easter, though of course you were much missed at home._

_All my love,_

_Patrick._

**

Greta had hurried up to Pete’s room the moment she left Mr Stump, and shook him roughly awake before flinging open the curtains. “Up,” she hissed, but Pete didn’t stir. “So help me God, my Lord Highleyton, I will throw this water over you if you don’t bestir yourself.”

“Wazzit?” said the blanket-lump that was her employer.

“Pete!” she hissed again and shook him. “Up!”

“Timezit?” enquired the blanket.

“Just after eight,” she informed him. The blanket made a wordless groan of disapproval, and buried itself deeper into the pillows. “You wanted Mr Stump to come and see you as soon as he’d breakfasted.”

“Yes,” the blanket said, sitting up and proving itself to be her employer in very fact, and not a lump of laundry. “When I hoped against hope that he’d breakfast at a decent hour like everyone else. What’s he doing up at eight?”

“Keeping normal hours,” she said sweetly. “Unlike some people. And so help me, you will put some clothes on and you will put him at his ease and you _will do it now_. The poor boy went white when I told him you wanted to see him, so you’re going to put your best foot forward. He’s about to go into breakfast, and you’ll need all the time you can get to wake up properly and make yourself fit for company.”

“What’d you tell him?” 

“That you wanted to see him in your room when he’d breakfasted,” she said, and Pete groaned, flopping back down. “None of that! Up!”

“I’m up, woman, oh my god!”

“Properly up,” she said heartlessly. “Get out of that bed!”

“Not while you’re watching!”

“You are far too old to develop a sense of modesty now,” she snapped, but turned away to check the water on the washstand. “Are you up yet?”

Pete glowered at her back and pulled on a dressing gown. “Yes,” he said sulkily. “Send Andy to me. I couldn’t possibly dress myself, like a real person. Not now I’m a _Lord_ and _too old_.”

“He’ll be right in, your Majesty,” Greta said, well-pleased with her work, and curtseyed her way out, blatantly mocking him.

Pete sat grumpily on the edge of his bed, staring into space, not yet fully awake and thinking longingly of sleep. He couldn’t even remember what he’d wanted to see Patrick for anyway. Andy could probably remind him.

He twisted himself round and glared out the window. In an hour or so, he’d be able to appreciate that it was a beautiful day. Now, it was an affront.

**

Patrick breakfasted poorly, despite the sheer amount of food placed out on the sideboard. Surely, this was meant to feed hundreds, not two, one of whom wouldn’t even be partaking. He was too nervous to do more than pick at his food, even though he was by now constitutionally incapable of leaving anything on his plate. 

It was almost a relief to be able to push his plate away and ask a footman to take him up to Lord Highleyton’s room.

It was more of a relief to find Lord Highleyton in the company of a manservant who was valiantly attempting to coax him into a coat.

“Good morning!” the man said cheerfully. “I’m Andy – Lord Highleyton’s manservant. You must be Mr Stump.”

“I am,” Patrick said slowly. This didn’t look like the scene of rapine seduction he’d been expecting. Surely Pete wasn’t going to try to take advantage of their agreement while in the presence of a manservant?

“Excellent! Please come in – and could you grab his lordship’s lordly arm and shove it into his coat? He’s being recalcitrant.” Patrick wavered at the door, but then Pete swayed gently on the spot and Andy let out a wail of misery. “Please keep still, Pete!” he implored, and received a half-awake grunt in reply. “As you see,” he said to Patrick, still labouring with the coat, “his lordship isn’t good at mornings.”

“Insolent wretch,” Pete mumbled, and Andy nodded at Patrick, who had come over to hold his coat up for him. With the coat on, Andy stood back to assess the overall picture.

It wasn’t promising, but he seemed satisfied. “I think we’ll leave the cravat for the moment,” he said. “Mr Stump, thank you so much. If you could just take him down to breakfast, that would be so kind.”

“It’s my goddamn house,” Pete muttered in protest.

“Yes, it is,” Andy agreed kindly, in the tone of one addressing a small, promising child. “Mr Stump, would you be so kind?”

“Um, certainly. But Mr Wentz wanted to see me, so-”

“Ah, of course. Well. I’ll leave you to it. Call if he gets too much for you!”

Patrick offered a weak laugh in response, and hoped that the tremble in his voice hadn’t been noticed.

Pete didn’t seem like he was going to be much of a threat, slumping down on the bed the moment the door shut behind Andy.

“Um… Lord Highleyton?”

“Pete,” came the faint but inexorable reply.

“Yes, that,” Patrick said distractedly. Devil take it, but he wanted this interview over. “You should go down to breakfast. I mean, I already have, but you should… The servants have laid it all out.”

“Why are you up so early?” Pete demanded, in tones of weak loathing.

“It’s almost nine o’clock, sir.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Pete retorted, then looked up at him. “Clothes,” he said, waving a hand, and Patrick’s eyes widened. He could feel his heart begin to thump in his chest – apparently they _were_ going to do this now.

“Um. Off?” he asked, fingers going to his cravat – to remove or protect, he didn’t know.

Pete frowned up at him, eyes still blurry with sleep. “Hn?” he said, questioningly. “No, I just put them on. You. Need clothes.”

“I have clothes.”

“Not good ones,” Pete said, eyeing him. “Tactless, I’ll say sorry later. When I’m awake. No, you need clothes. Proper clothes, Stultz or Scott or Weston or s’mbody. No,” he added, thoughtfully. “Not Scott. Not a soldier. Alright. Stultz or Weston.”

“I can’t possibly afford-” 

“And I can’t afford a secretary who looks like I dragged him from a back-alley, no matter how good his name is,” Pete told him, and Patrick gave him a second, shrewd look.

“You’re awake,” he accused. “ _Properly_ awake. You – you-!”

Pete gave him a sly grin. “Breakfast. Don’t tell anyone, will you? They’d never let me sleep in again. Come on, Master Patrick. Help the useless aristocrat down to his breakfast.”

**

Pete made sure he slid back into torpor as they reached the bottom of the stairs, letting Patrick lead him. He never felt truly awake until the second cup of coffee, but he was certainly awake enough to win an argument with Patrick, and he already felt a sense of accomplishment for the day. Patrick’s comment about taking his clothes off was odd, to be sure, but Pete supposed he hadn’t been clear. Still, it was strange that Patrick thought Pete’s clothes would fit him.

Nevertheless, he was determined to make sure that today wasn’t like the other days. Today, he was going to be a Good Host, and possibly try and get on friendly terms with his guest. The little he’d seen of Patrick without awkwardness seemed like someone Pete would very much want to know.

“I’ll get you some coffee, shall I?” Patrick said, loudly and kindly, and Pete grinned at him, secure in the knowledge that the footmen would never see it.

“Hn,” he grunted, and Patrick handed him a cup of coffee, and went to fetch him some breakfast. When ham and eggs were put in front of him, he paused, and glowered down at them. “Toast,” he ordered, clicking his fingers. “Needs toast.”

“I can make toast,” Patrick offered hesitantly, and Pete frowned at him.

“S’why servants,” he said, ungrammatically. Looking round and seeing neither of the footmen he’d expected, he raised his voice. “Servants?”

Greta materialised. “I do wish you wouldn’t bellow, sir,” she said, and he grinned winningly at her.

“Toast?” he said, beseechingly, and she sighed.

“How many slices?”

Pete looked furtive. “Four?”

“Three. Or you’ll be sick.”

“Four,” he retorted stubbornly.

“Three, and you’ll like it.”

“Who pays you?”

“Who feeds you?”

“Who pays for the food I eat?”

“Who cooks the food you eat?”

Pete could see Patrick watching this verbal tennis match in stunned silence, and played his trump card. “Two are for him!”

Greta glared at him. “And of course you couldn’t have mentioned that earlier. What will Mr Stump think of us?”

Patrick was, in fact, forcibly reminded of Joe. “No, no – it’s familiar,” he said, then clamped his mouth shut.

Pete nodded at Greta, and she took herself off with a scowl, presumably in search of toast. Pete shrugged at Patrick. “I wouldn’t want to live in a house where everything went to plan,” he explained. "So boring. And having people fawn over you is vastly overrated. At least,” he added contemplatively, “it’s fun to start with. Then it gets a little wearing. And Greta and I were children together at Highleyton. I’m reliably informed you can’t hold someone in awe when you’ve seen them eat mud.”

Patrick grinned – he’d heard much the same sentiment from Joe. Not that Joe had ever had to so much as pretend to have any respect for Patrick. “My – my valet, he’s much the same,” he agreed, then wished he hadn’t stumbled over ‘valet’, because Pete was giving him a very knowing look.

“It sounds like he’ll fit in here, then,” was all he said, though. “When does he arrive?”

“Oh – oh, yes, I wrote a letter to him. Is it-” he broke off. He’d been going to ask for a frank, but that was almost certainly overstepping the mark. Bad enough that Joe was going to be eating and sleeping in Pete’s house, an extra cost. Patrick was trying to keep tally, but really, he had no idea how much money Pete was already losing letting Patrick work off his debt. “I mean. Are you sure he need come? I could tell him I’m making an extended stay, he won’t-” ‘mind’, he’d been going to say, then thought that might sound odd, “worry. I don’t need someone to wait on me.” And God only knew Joe would do a horrible job of it.

Pete gave him an odd look. “Nonsense,” he said heartily, after a strange pause. “Only think how unusual it would look for you to be here with no valet and next to no luggage. I’ll frank the letter for you after breakfast. Have you any others?”

Patrick flushed, and looked down at his hands. “My sister,” he admitted. “Just to tell her where to direct any letters she might send.”

“Of course. Give them to me and I’ll have them sent tomorrow. Where is she at school?”

“Ramsgate. My mother chose the school before she died; said Megan would be happy there. I think she is, she’s never said otherwise. But then,” he added despondently, “I don’t think she would. I’ve never been able to hide our circumstances from her as much as I would like.”

Pete didn’t press him on that point, for which Patrick was grateful, choosing instead, to change the subject briskly. “Well, I’ll have your letter sent on, which I’m sure will please her. Now, I said earlier, you’ll need clothes. Proper clothes, clothes you can be seen in. How would it be if we went to Weston’s tomorrow and got you kitted out to my satisfaction?”

“Bazalgette made most of my clothes for my come-out,” Patrick said diffidently, and Pete snorted.

“My god, you must have looked a figure,” he said, grinning. “I can’t imagine you in green velvet and spangles.”

“I think those were to his Highness’s specifications,” Patrick said primly, and glanced at Pete just in time to see the way his face changed when he laughed.

“Well, it’s the sort of thing Prinny would do, I suppose,” he agreed. “No, it must be Weston, he’s never led a man wrong yet. Now, I’ve business to attend to this morning, and I’d like you to sit in on it, if you would; I’m sure with all your musical training, you’ve got a good ear, and I’ll need you to pick out any names you hear and I’ll tell you about them over lunch – whether they’re people I like and so on, whose invitations you should always accept and whose you should refuse, that sort of thing. And draw me up a list of things you think I should attend – there’s a stack of invitations for concerts and rout-parties and exhibitions, all the nonsense I’m invited to, and I don’t even know where to start.”

“Ah, the perils of being young, well-born and wealthy,” Patrick murmured, unable to suppress his grin completely. Pete had sounded so _aggrieved_. “How do you cope?”

“Obviously, I don’t,” Pete said cheerfully. “That’s where you come in. So, tell me what you suggest at lunch, and I’ll go from there. Then, I thought you might care for a ride, this afternoon?”

It had been so long since Patrick had ridden, he wasn’t even sure he really knew how anymore. Still, if he was social secretary-come-live-in companion, it probably wasn’t politic to say that. “Of course,” he agreed. “But-” he broke off, paused, then said slowly, “I don’t really – I mean.”

“Spit it out,” Pete advised kindly, attacking his ham.

“Well, I’m not a member of the family, am I? I’m more in a – a governess sort of role.”

“Let’s be clear on this,” Pete said, pointing his knife at Patrick, mouth full. “You are _not_ my governess.”

“No, a governess _sort of role_ ,” Patrick said, exasperated, and Pete grinned to himself. “I mean, not quite servant, not quite...” he waved a hand, “you know.”

“I don’t know,” Pete told him calmly. “If you’re saying you should take your meals separately, and I should make awkward conversation with you when our paths happen to cross and keep myself aloof... Patrick, you saw how I behave with my staff. Formality’s all well and good and it has its uses, but it’s no way to live all the time. I can’t be doing with it. So forgive me, but I’m not going to treat you like a tutor or a governess because it doesn’t sound like any fun at all.” He shoved some ham in his mouth, and beamed at Patrick. “Anyway,” he added, “we’ve been doing that for the last few days, and I don’t know about you, but I thought it was awful. I want to get to know you. So, I’m going to drink some more of Greta’s excellent coffee, and you’re going to eat some of her excellent toast, and we’re going to talk strategy.”

**

‘Strategy’ was Pete’s word for gauging which social events Patrick enjoyed and which he hated the very idea of, mentioning everything from Venetian breakfasts to turtle-dinners. It had suddenly occurred to him halfway through the first cup of coffee: the best way out for Patrick was an eligible marriage, and the least Pete could do after the (thoroughly unnecessary) humiliation he’d subjected Patrick to was set him in the way of one.

He had a shrewd idea that Patrick just needed to be seen to be admired, so he’d sort him out with decent clothes and take him round London with him. His lack of fortune was a shame, but others had made good marriages without a penny to their name, so it wasn’t reason to despair. There were those out there with enough money that they didn’t care how wealthy or otherwise their intended was; it was just a case of putting Patrick in their way.

Pete grinned into his coffee cup; it was surprisingly fun, being this side of the matchmaking schemes. He was actually enjoying himself, which God only knew had been rare in London so far. He’d been thinking about leaving for India again until Patrick appeared in his life.

“So, I’ll be with my man of business until about eleven,” he said, swallowing down his glee at this new turn of events and making sure to sound appropriately bored, “and then we’ll go through your list and I’ll make sure you’re up-to-date with the people you absolutely must know. That I know. People you absolutely must know that I know.” Patrick was eyeing him oddly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Patrick said, quickly looking back down at his tea, and Pete kept the silence pointed. “It’s just – how can you know you’ll be with your man of business till eleven when you didn’t even know you were going to be up by then?”

Pete grinned. “I know, because I employ him, and I only intend to be with him till eleven. And I’d be pretty bad at my job if I didn’t, you know. Keep on top of these things by myself. We’re not going through things in any detail, just keeping each other apprised of our ends of the estate and telling him what I want to do.”

“How are the names of your friends going to come up in this meeting, then?” Patrick asked, frowning.

“Because I’ve invested with half of them and the other half owe me money,” Pete told him. “Incidentally, it’s probably best if I don’t visit the half who owe me money. It just gets awkward for everyone.”

“I’ll make sure to keep a note of it,” Patrick said dryly, and Pete beamed at him.

“I knew this would be a good idea,” he said happily, ignored Patrick’s sigh, and attacked his breakfast.

**

For Patrick, Pete’s business meeting was really only interesting for one reason – like the rest of London, he’d known that Pete Wentz had left London in penniless disgrace, and Lord Highleyton had returned incredibly wealthy, but he hadn’t quite appreciated that Lord Highleyton (Pete) was an extremely shrewd businessman. It had almost been a shock, and for a while, Patrick had sat there, listening to business details he wasn’t expected to understand, without taking in anything at all.

Then he’d pulled himself together, and stamped down on the spark of unwilling respect for Pete’s business acumen. He might be an excellent businessman, but he was still an unscrupulous bastard with an appalling singing voice who was currently holding Patrick’s virtue and honour in the balance. Patrick didn’t want to respect him. 

It was hard not to like him, though, especially when he asked after all of his tenants by name, and smiled broadly at Patrick when his man of business left. 

“That must have been so dull, I’m sorry,” he apologised, and Patrick shrugged.

“Not at all,” he said politely, and Pete laughed.

“Liar, but alright,” he said, and Patrick wondered whether he should feel insulted by that. He wondered if he had the _right_ to feel insulted by that.

“I picked up the names of some of your – I think your friends? But they might be your tenants, I’m not sure.”

“Show me,” Pete ordered, and Patrick handed over the list, wishing his writing was neater. “Alright, most of them are friends – a few are business partners and tenants. Did you have a chance to look over those?” He pointed at the stack of invitations and cards Patrick had brought into the study with him for the moments when the talk of investments and land went over his head.

“I did,” Patrick said nervously. “I picked out a few you might like?”

“Hand ’em over.” Pete flicked through them. “Scarlatti, nice. Oh, an engagement party! I like those, everyone’s so cheerful.” He eyed one invitation and set it aside. “Would you hate it if we didn’t go to the Salisburys’ ball? It’s an extension of Almack’s, and I don’t think we’d escape with our lives.”

“That bad?” Patrick said sceptically. He’d never been particularly sought-after, but he’d always imagined it would be easier than being a despised wallflower.

“Have you ever been sat between two match-making mamas so desperate to sell you on their children that they all-but offer to let you inspect the kids’ teeth and eyes? It’s like Tattersall’s, but worse – at least you don’t feel bad about turning down a horse.”

Patrick considered this. “Oh. I just always thought it would be nice to be. Well. In demand.” He paused. “Actually, I think my mama was probably one of those harridans pushing their children at any even halfway decent prospect. ‘Oh, yes, my boy Patrick’,” he mimicked. “‘Well, he’s short and red-headed, but he is practically silent. You won’t even know he’s there!’ And that,” he added, “was on a good day, when we _hadn’t_ argued and she wasn’t telling everyone I needed to be managed with a whip and a chair.” He realised what he’d said, flushed to the roots of his hair and stared down at the invitations in his lap.

Pete’s laugh was unexpected but warm. “I wish I’d met her on one of those days, I’d probably have known you for years by now. And I think our mothers would have got on – mine used to positively enjoy telling everyone that I was as stubborn as a pig, with manners to match.” He smiled, contemplative. “I think she was actually rather proud of that.”

Patrick smiled suddenly, lifting his gaze from the invitations. “I’m glad they never met,” he said. “I think London would probably be in ruins by now.”

**

Patrick’s smile – his _real_ smile, not the polite, strained imitation he usually reserved for Pete – was unexpectedly lovely and Pete grinned back, heartened.

Then the warmth faded as Patrick became businesslike again. “So, no to the Salisbury Ball,” he made a note on the invitation, taking it back from Pete. “Yes to the Scarlatti concert – that’s all for the next few days. Oh – what about the engagement party?”

“Why not? I don’t know the Iero boy, but Gerard’s a good man. Though,” Pete added slyly, “you’ll have to come with me to remind me who everyone is, and what gift I gave the happy couple. What _does_ one get for a happy couple? _Are_ they a happy couple? This could have been an arranged marriage for all I know. They might hate each other.” He sighed. “I am so out of touch.”

“Well, if you know one of them, you could write and ask?”

Pete snorted. “’Dear Gee, so happy to hear of your engagement. Do tell me, on a scale of one to ten – one being apathy, ten, actively loathe – how much do you hate your betrothed?’ Yes, that would go down well.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you could be more tactful than that.”

“No, I’m sure _you_ could be more tactful than that. Why don’t you write and ask?”

“Because,” Patrick said pointedly, “I don’t know either of these people. _And_ I’m not the one just returned from India, very out of touch with Society.”

“That’s why you would write as if from me!”

“No.”

“But I’m sure you’d write prettier letters than I could,” Pete said beguilingly. “I’m just a boor from the colonies. You’ve got Town bronze.”

“I beg your pardon?” Patrick said icily, evidently unsure whether he’d been insulted or not. He looked conflicted and adorable.

Pete sighed. “It means you’ve got – London polish. Well done.”

“Oh. Not enough to know what that meant, apparently. But, wait, no,” Patrick rallied, struggling through the conversational obstacles Pete had gaily thrown in his way. “You went to _Eton_. I am not writing your letters for you!”

Pete pouted. “Fine. Will you at least read it through for me to check I haven’t made any glaring indiscretions?”

“Alright,” Patrick conceded grudgingly. 

“Good. Now that’s all sorted-“

“No, it’s not.” Patrick retrieved a sheaf of paper from the side-table. “We’ve still got to go through these. And these are just the ones that aren’t already out of date; I threw those away! What have you been _doing_ since you got back from India? I know you must have gone out at least once, because-“

He stopped suddenly, a red flush spreading across his cheekbones, and Pete remembered why Patrick might not want to be reminded of how they met.

“I’ve been out,” he said as indignantly as possible to distract from the awkward silence that threatened. “I went to my tailor’s. Which reminds me, I should write him a letter.”

“As long as you’re the one writing it,” Patrick said, recovering.

“But it’s about you!”

“No dice. Come on, my lord Highleyton –“

“-Pete-“

“Let’s look at this month’s correspondence.”

**

“So, about that ride,” Pete said idly over the tea tray. “Do you still fancy it?”

Patrick had never fancied riding. In his experiences, horses were big, bad-tempered and unpredictable. He’d never had an experience with a horse that hadn’t ended with him on the ground. Nevertheless, he wasn’t really in any position to quibble, and it was a beautiful day, so instead of refusing point-blank to go anywhere near a horse, he smiled politely and said, “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

Pete frowned a little. “Did you bring any clothes for riding?”

Patrick didn’t _have_ any clothes for riding. His wardrobe had never been very extensive even when his parents had been alive. Currently, he had three suits to his name, one of which he was wearing. “Oh, these will be fine,” he said weakly. 

He hoped Pete wouldn’t ride neck-or-nothing; he couldn’t afford to get his clothes mended if they tore when he inevitably fell off. He took a gloomy sip of tea and tried to look enthusiastic.

When the groom brought the horses round to the door, Patrick’s worst fears were realised. The horse he was supposed to ride seemed to be about eight feet tall and was eyeing him in an unfriendly and awfully interested way. Patrick hadn’t felt this uncomfortable since his come-out ball. 

Pete was chatting to the groom and petting the neck of his horse, which didn’t seem appreciably better, though apparently more docile – or at least used to Pete. Turning to Patrick with a friendly smile, he said, “Are you ready?”

No, thought Patrick. “Yes,” said his traitor mouth. “What’s this horse called?” 

He’d need a name to put on the Wanted posters after the creature bucked him off and disappeared over the horizon.

“This is George. Well. His real name is Escape-I-May, but that’s a bit of a mouthful.”

Patrick whimpered gently to himself and went over to the mounting block.

At first, it all seemed to be going well. They reached Hyde Park without incident, even though Pete’s horse (Captain’s Joy, ‘I call him Jack’) was inclined to take exception to road sweepers, link-boys and ladies’ bonnets. It was only when Pete took a furtive look round and said, “There’s not many people here. We could probably risk a gallop, don’t you think?” that Patrick started to feel a little sick.

“Of-of course,” he managed and tightened his grip on the reins. “After you.”

Pete grinned at him and then took off like a bolt down the track. 

This apparently was too much for Escape-I-May, who lived up to his name and shot after him, Patrick clinging to his saddle and praying. It was almost a shock to find that when they caught up with Pete and slowed to a dignified trot, Patrick was still on the horse.

“Alright?” Pete said, grinning wildly. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright and Patrick hated him.

“Yes,” he said tightly. He wasn’t about to lose what shred of dignity he had left and beg to be allowed to go home.

“Good! Race you to that beech!”

“What?” Patrick managed before George went hell-for-leather again. 

Two hellish episodes later, Pete’s name was called sharply from a landaulet, and he swung Jack round into a halt, evidently surprised. George, scenting victory, behaved in a most ungentlemanly fashion, and took full advantage of his opponent’s distraction and bolted.

**

“-but that kind of _ventre-à-terre_ sort of riding is not acceptable in Hyde Park,” Mrs Lascombe informed Pete stridently. Pete made an effort not to squirm. Mrs Lascombe had caught him scrumping as a boy, and had never let him forget it. Twenty-eight years old, and he was reduced to a schoolboy with mud on his face.

“Yes, I’m sorry, ma’am. But,” he said with returning spirit. “when you’ve had to run from brigands in India, these niceties tend to escape you.”

“Well,” Mrs Lascombe said with severity. “Since you are returned to London, I can only hope you find them again quite quickly. Whatever would your mama say? Oh,” her expression changed minutely. “Is your friend all right? That was quite a nasty fall.”

Pete spun around. Patrick, limping slightly and holding George firmly by the bridle, was making his way over, scarlet-faced under his top hat. When he got closer, Pete noted with shock that he was shaking. Nevertheless, his bow to Mrs Lascombe was impeccable.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Mrs Lascombe said with a pointed look at Pete.

“What? Ah, yes, sorry. Mrs Lascombe, my good friend Mr Patrick Stump. Patrick, this is Mrs Eliza  
Lascombe, bosom bow to my mother.”

“Mr Stump. I hope you’re all right.”

“Quite well, thank you, ma’am. It’s been a while since I rode,” Patrick said, polite but clearly mortified. 

Mrs Lascombe looked him over, and then, to Pete’s shock, smiled. Mrs Lascombe hadn’t smiled anywhere near Pete since the death of Princess Charlotte. “Falls happen to the best of us, my lad. Particularly,” she shot a nasty look at Pete, “when your riding companion is going far too quickly and your horse is far too big and heavy for you.” She eyed Patrick. “Yes. I think, perhaps, two hands smaller and three stone lighter. And with a softer mouth – Peter, have you been using this beast for carriage-driving? This will be some Four-Horse Club nonsense, I expect. Nouveau rubbish...” she glared at George before turning her beady gaze back to Patrick. “My husband was a keen horseman,” she explained. “It was about our only topic of conversation. My son is a Melton man – very good hunting where he lives – and has several very good horses. Perhaps you should discuss this with him, Peter,” she added pointedly. “I’m sure he’d be able to recommend Mr Stump a horse.”

Pete nodded. Patrick was staring at the ground, still scarlet.

“Of course,” Pete said when it was clear an answer was expected. “I’ll look into it.”

“Perhaps you’d like to bring your friend to one of my drawing rooms.” Despite the phrasing, it was not a suggestion. “I’d be delighted to further our acquaintance. You’d also be welcome, of course,” she added, and Pete squirmed again, as she turned back to Patrick. “Quite a little thing, you know,” she told him. “Only a few good friends and some excellent wines. But I’m told they’re rather enjoyable.”

“We’d be delighted,” Pete said nervously. Mrs Lascombe had clearly seen in Patrick a new protégé, and this made him uneasy. “Patrick, why don’t you take George over to the trough and I’ll meet you there.”

Patrick bowed to Mrs Lascombe and disappeared without saying anything.

“I’d be very careful if I were you, Peter,” she said warningly. “If you’re planning to marry that boy, you don’t want to scare him off with bad horses and wild behaviour.”

Pete’s mind flicked back to the night he and Patrick had met: the very definition of wild behaviour, and Pete hadn’t been the only one participating. “I’m not planning to marry him – or anyone,” he added when her expression turned thunderous. “We’re friends.” _Remember friends?_ he dearly wanted to say. Mrs Lascombe had probably eaten all hers.

Mrs Lascombe sniffed. “Hmm. Well, if you say so. Just take better care of your friends in future. The poor boy looks quite shaken. And your mother taught you better. Drive on!”

The carriage rattled on without a word of farewell. Pete shrugged – he was used to that – and went over to the trough, where George was gorging himself and Patrick was splashing his face with water, hat balanced on George’s saddle. His hands were scraped and his knees grass-stained, and he was avoiding Pete’s eyes. The tremors hadn’t quite stopped.

“I’m so sorry,” he said in that remote, overly-formal tone that was beginning to grate on Pete’s nerves. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

Pete scowled. “You didn’t. Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Patrick said shortly, still staring anywhere but at Pete. “But you’re going to have to hold the horse while I remount from the trough.”

Wordlessly, Pete reached down and held George’s bridle while Patrick rescued his hat and clambered back into the saddle.

“He is too big for you,” Pete said abruptly. “I’m sorry. I should have seen that.”

“I should have mentioned it,” Patrick admitted.

“Yes, you should, if you noticed!” Pete snapped. Patrick was embarrassed which meant Pete was embarrassed. Pete hated being embarrassed. It didn’t bring out the best in him. “Why in the name of God did you let me bring you out on him if you knew he didn’t suit you?”

“Because no horse suits me!” Patrick snapped back, and then subsided into silence as they set off at a decorous amble towards home. After a couple of minutes, he said, quietly, “I don’t like to ride. I’m not good at it. _Every_ horse is like this one – too big for me, too strong and too wild. But, because I’m a gentleman, apparently I have to ride horses like this, and I have to pretend I like riding, and I have to get back on the horse whenever I fall off, and I fall off a lot. And now I’ve embarrassed you in front of your mother’s friend.”

“Well,” Pete said, regaining a little of his equilibrium. “I’m embarrassed every time I see Mrs Lascombe. As you say, she was a friend of mother’s, and she’s seen me grow up. I can assure you she’s seen me embarrass myself far more creatively than by falling off a horse. You should have said that you didn’t like riding.”

“Oh yes, and have you think I was a spineless, soft-handed weakling –“

“Oh come on,” Pete said irritably. “Who told you that?”

“I don’t _need_ to be told. Pete, my brother was in the Hussars! He was a cavalryman! And me afraid of horses.”

“Did your brother tell you it was somehow _unmanly_ to –“

“ _No_ ,” Patrick said, exasperated. “But find me any boy who will willingly admit to not liking horses. It would be like... disliking boxing.”

“Plenty of people don’t like boxing,” Pete pointed out. “ _I_ don’t like boxing. The entire dandy set doesn’t like boxing. And they don’t go a bundle on horses, either.”

“Yes, because it is obvious from my appearance that I wish for nothing more than to be a dandy,” Patrick snapped, his face colouring again.

“You’re totally missing the point,” Pete said. “All I’m saying is, it’s not an unreasonable fear.”

Patrick frowned. “Are there any reasonable fears?”

“Yes? Fear of horses,” Pete pulled Jack’s head away from a particularly tempting hat. “The dark. Heights. We’re all frightened of things we can’t control.”

“What are you frightened of?” Patrick asked, torn between genuine interest and belligerence.

“Heights. The dark. Heights _and_ the dark. Heights _in_ the dark,” Pete smiled when Patrick laughed.

“Going up to bed in the evening must be a problem.”

“I cope. I take a candle. All I’m saying is, I’m afraid of lots of things. So when I have to do them, I make sure they’re as undaunting as possible. I _don’t_ get on a horse too big or strong for me without a word of complaint.”

Patrick looked at down at his saddle. “What was I supposed to do? It would have been rude to complain.”

“How?” Pete asked. “You’re my guest, and I’d like you to be my friend. As my guest, you’re entitled to feel comfortable, and as my friend, I _want_ you to feel comfortable.” He couldn’t understand why Patrick flushed and looked away. “I won’t make you ride,” Pete said, awkward. “But I would like it if you came out walking with me, and perhaps, if I found a more suitable horse, perhaps you might like to try again sometime?” 

He could almost see Patrick steeling himself for it. “Perhaps if you found me something nice and biddable.” A small smile quirked the corners of his mouth, and he shot Pete a lightning, mischief-filled glance. “A Shetland pony, maybe.”

“I could get you a Connemara,” Pete offered, responding in kind.

“I don’t know what that is,” Patrick admitted.

“Think George, but shrunk, and sweet-tempered. I had no idea he was such a bully, I’m so sorry.” He patted George firmly on the rump. “He’ll be getting no oats this evening.” George paid no attention to him.

“Actually, I think he just knew I had no idea what I was doing,” Patrick said, patting George absently, then clearly wondering why he was rewarding bad behaviour. “I’d probably have done the same. Like a servant when their employer is an idiot; no matter how honest or good-natured you are, the temptation to take advantage is pretty much overwhelming.”

The mention of servants drew Pete’s mind to happier topics. “Ah, yes, and your man should be waiting for you when you get home.”

Patrick looked distinctly shifty. “Ah. Yes. Good.”

**

Joe had in fact been waiting for forty minutes, and descended upon Patrick like a hen on a recalcitrant chick. “Where the hell have you been?” Joe demanded, _sotto voce_ , as he took Patrick’s coat. “You were supposed to be back two days ago, I was about to send for the Runners.”

“Yes, of course,” Patrick said loudly. “Lord Highleyton, this is my man, Joe Trohman.”

Pete eyed Joe, then grinned, holding out a hand. “Mr Trohman. Good to meet you. So, it’s your job to keep Mr Stump in line?”

Joe gave him a hard look, then his expression softened as he shook Pete’s hand firmly. “He’s quite biddable most of the time,” he said, and shot Patrick a hard glance.

“I wish you’d tell me that secret,” Pete sighed. “I’ve yet to find him so.”

“A firm hand and regular beatings,” Patrick said, patting Joe on the arm, and smiling at Pete. Pete’s expression went completely, oddly blank for a second, then went red, smiled and effaced himself. Patrick shrugged and turned back to Joe. “Are you settled in? Is your room alright?”

“I’m fine,” Joe told him. “I met the most wonderful woman-”

“Which one? I’m still getting used to there being more than two servants.”

“Mrs Salpeter. I think she’s an angel. She _looks_ like an angel.”

“Not an angel, Mr Trohman,” Greta said from behind him, and Joe jumped, then turned adoring eyes on her. Greta smiled. “Mr Stump, I hope you had a pleasant ride?”

“Very enjoyable, thank you,” said Patrick, then stomped on Joe’s foot when he turned round, open-mouthed and blatantly in a spirit to disagree.

“Excellent. There’ll be tea in about half an hour in the drawing room if you want it. Lord Highleyton has gone to change.” 

She left, and Joe looked at Patrick. “I suppose this means you’ll want dressing too?” Joe said, long-suffering, and Patrick offered him a sheepish smile. “But first,” Joe said, inexorable, “you’re going to tell me what we’re doing here.”

“Why don’t we go up to my room? I’ll explain everything there.”

“This bodes well...”

“No, no,” Patrick said quickly. “There’s absolutely nothing to worry about!”

“Well, now I’m worried.”

**

“Mr Stump seems to be settling in well,” Andy said pleasantly.

“Yes, he does. Greta!”

Greta poked her head round the door, then winced. “Lord Highleyton, how lovely. I haven’t seen you naked in at least a week. I’m sure that’s some sort of record.”

“You saw me naked this morning!” Pete pointed out, and clambered into his drawers and breeches. 

“Ah yes. Record broken. What did you want?”

“Would you have Mr Mrotek send the head groom to me, please?”

“Certainly. Can I let him know what it’s about?”

“I need to purchase a horse,” Pete shrugged.

“Where do you want to see him?”

“Where will make him least uncomfortable?” he asked, pulling on the shirt Andy offered him.

“The stables, probably. Why don’t you see him in your office?” Greta suggested.

A bellow came from along the corridor. “‘ _Absolutely nothing to worry about_ ’?”

There was an awkward silence, then Greta began, “Well, I think-”

She was interrupted by another yell of rage. “What made you think I wouldn’t _scream_ when there were people?! Patrick, what _the fuck_?!”

Andy sniggered, and was subdued by a quelling look from Greta. “Mr Trohman is making himself at home,” she said calmly.

“But how could you-!?” The sound was abruptly cut off, as though someone had clapped a hand over Joe’s mouth. Knowing Patrick, Pete thought, he probably had.

**

In fact, Patrick had managed to knock Joe over, and was sitting on him, one hand clamped over his mouth.

“Shut _up_ , oh my God,” he hissed. “Someone will hear you!”

“Mm mnn mmh!” Joe said furiously.

“I know you don’t care, but I do. Look, I know it doesn’t sound like it, but Lord Highleyton is – is – nice,” he finished lamely.

“ _Nice_?” Joe demanded, squeaking with outrage, when Patrick slitted his fingers to allow him to breathe. “Patrick, he’s basically holding your honour hostage, this could be the plot of a penny dreadful!” Joe adopted the cackling tone of a two-bit villain. “‘Well, my dear, this problem could easily be solved – if you give me your body! Mwa-ha-ha!’”

Patrick, still sat on his chest, stared at him. “What? Joe – what?!”

There was a knock on the door, and they both squeaked, staring at each other in panic, before scrambling to their feet. Patrick threw himself into the fireside chair while Joe busied himself pouring out water into the wash-bowl. “Come in!” Patrick called, as calmly as possible, fiddling ostentatiously with his cuffs.

“Mr Stump?” Greta said, through the door. “Tea is waiting for you downstairs, if you’d care to come into the drawing room.”

“Thank you!” 

They waited for her footsteps to die away. 

“It’s not a good idea,” Joe said, serious. 

“I know it’s not ideal, but it’s my only option,” Patrick said.

“No, it’s not.”

“Oh, really? What would you suggest?”

Joe thought long and hard. “What else do we have to sell?”

“Apart from the house – which we need – nothing that will cover the debt.”

“There’s got to be _something_.”

“There is,” Patrick agreed. “Me. No, really, I’m the last thing of any value I can barter away. I mean, I’d hoped it’d be by way of a marriage contract, but that won’t be an option anymore, so this is our only hope.” He tried to smile. “Don’t worry, it might not even matter. I’m not even sure if Lord Highleyton...” he stopped, trying to think of a polite way to put it.

“Fucks men?” Joe said bluntly, and Patrick winced.

“Yes, thank you. That.”

“Well, considering you’re still here after three days, and he hasn’t back-tracked, I think it’s probably safe to say he does. No,” he said fatalistically, “it’s not a question of ‘if’, but ‘when’.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” Patrick said dryly. “You always make me feel so much better.”

“It’s not my job to make you feel better, it’s my job to dress you and keep you out of trouble. Since I’ve failed in one respect, I’d better fulfil my other duties. Come over here and wash, you smell of horse.”

**

With a tentative peace achieved, they fell into a routine. Pete had turned down all invitations for that week, which left them more or less free to wander in the nearby Park, attend a few concerts and get Pete used to London again. Pete had also made good on his threat and dragged Patrick to Weston, where he had been fitted with a bewildering array of new clothes in odd cuts and styles. He wasn’t entirely sure they suited him, but Pete was well-pleased with the result, and since he was the one paying, Patrick wasn’t about to quibble. 

Their first social duty was the Way-Iero engagement party held at Way House. Pete was obviously looking forward to it: he was well-acquainted with the family (the sons, at least) and was plainly looking forward to an evening of easy intimacy with close friends. Patrick had been at the house in Brunswick Square long enough to have heard the rumours about Pete and Mikey Way – at least, Joe had heard them and passed them on – and caught himself wondering just what kind of intimacy Pete had in mind.

He himself was not looking forward to it in the slightest; he knew none of these people and he couldn’t possibly expect Pete to stay by his side all evening, which meant he looked forward to an evening of awkward small talk, self-effacement and nursing one drink all evening. The only thing that astonished was how little he was looking forward to giving up his easy evenings at home with Pete: he’d play the piano or read a book, while Pete wrote apparently endless letters and poetry that he wouldn’t let Patrick read. Occasionally, they’d play cards and Pete would try and cajole Patrick into singing. It was – fun. Unexpectedly so, and Patrick frequently had to remind himself _why_ he was staying in Pete’s house.

The cage might be gilded, but it was still a cage.

He waited downstairs for Pete, tugging nervously at his cuffs and watching the clock. They were already going to be late, something which never seemed to bother Pete. Judging by the thunderous expression on Greta’s face, it bothered her somewhat.

“Alex,” she beckoned to a nearby footman. “Would you go upstairs and tell his lordship that Mr Stump is ready to go, the carriage is prepared and if he doesn’t want the party to be over before he arrives, he’d do well to bestir himself.”

Alex hesitated.

“All right, maybe not that last part,” Greta waved him upstairs and he went. She tutted, looking at the clock. “He always does this. I’m so sorry, Mr Stump. It’s a habit of his we’ve tried to break him of.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Patrick lied, which would have been true on any other night, except he wanted tonight over with. 

Before Greta could respond, there was a _thud_ from upstairs, the sound of running feet and Pete appeared at the top of the stairs.

“I’m here, I’m here!” 

Patrick stared, blinked and then shook his head. “You’re going back upstairs to change.”

“What?” Pete looked genuinely confused. Maybe he just didn’t see what Patrick saw: the tight breeches, the frankly garish waistcoat, the too-high shirt-points and the extravagantly-padded coat shoulders.

Then again, maybe that was how fashionable young men of means dressed these days? What would Patrick know about it?

“Um,” he said, already regretting his earlier impulse. “Or, it’s, um. You look fine.”

“He does not look fine,” Greta said sternly. “My lord, you look a fright. You’re going to an engagement party and you’re representing this household. If you look bad, we all look bad. And you look _bad_.”

Pete looked exasperated, glanced at Patrick and demanded, “You think so, too?”

“It’s very…” Patrick searched for a word. “Bright.”

“You hate it,” Pete said flatly and sighed.

“Hate – no! It just –“

Pete waved a languid hand. “Fine, fine, I’ll change.” He turned around and went back up the stairs.

Ten minutes later, when Greta was near apoplexy, he reappeared again, this time dressed almost normally, though, Patrick noted, he’d kept the waistcoat. 

“Let’s go. Greta, my hat, cane and cape?” They were duly proffered, and Pete raised his eyebrows when Patrick just turned to the door. “And Mr Stump’s?”

“No, no, I’m fine. It’s a warm night. I don’t need –“ Patrick’s only coat had patches on the elbows and was so old it could probably walk to the party by itself. As far as he was aware, Pete’s crushing generosity hadn’t extended to outerwear. At least, he hadn’t wanted to mention it.

Pete scowled. “Andy!”

“Sir?”

“Fetch the blue coat from the boot room. The one with the buttons.”

Patrick flushed scarlet. “No, really, you don’t need – I’ll be fine.”

Pete rounded on him. “It’s March and you’ll freeze. And I know you don’t have a coat to match that waistcoat. It’s terribly important to make a good first impression-“

“Is that why you were modelling yourself on the Pinkest of dandies?” Patrick said before he could stop himself.

Pete looked furious for a second, and then grinned sheepishly. “I rather wanted to see whether Mikey would cry.”

Andy returned with the coat and helped Patrick into it. It was a little too long and the sleeves were too roomy, and for a moment, Patrick was forcibly reminded of being given Kevin’s old clothes with the promise that he’d ‘grow into them’.

He was glad of it when they got outside all the same. Pete was right; it _was_ March, and bloody freezing with it. The wind whipped down the streets and it was a relief that they were only taking a few short steps into the carriage, rather than setting off on foot.

“So,” Patrick said when they were settled and the carriage had set off. “Is there anyone I should look out for at this party? Any topics of conversation you’d recommend I avoid?”

Pete shrugged. “I don’t think so. Maybe don’t talk about Catholicism, but –“

“I’m Catholic.”

“Really?”

“Well… not an especially _good_ one, but I was brought up that way. Megan’s at convent school.”

“Huh.” Pete looked thoughtful. “Just as well you weren’t considering a career in Parliament.”

“Well, no. Because I’m Catholic.”

Pete grinned. “Alright. Catholicism is a safe subject. You can bond with Mrs Iero; I hear she’s very devout. Maybe don’t tell too many people.”

“Because that is the first piece of information I volunteer about myself,” Patrick agreed, deadpan.

“Other than that… no. I don’t think you have to be too careful about what you say. Lady Jersey will be there… be polite? Who else? Gabe Saporta, whom I think you know, and his husband-“

“What about Mikey Way?” Patrick blurted out before he could stop himself.

Pete gave him a very sharp look. “I expect so,” he said lightly. “It is his brother’s engagement party, after all. Do you know him?”

“Only by reputation,” Patrick said and then reflected that that could have sounded unfortunate.

“Oh yes?” there was a definite coolness to Pete’s voice. “What reputation would that be?”

Patrick held up his hands in surrender. “He’s a good musician! And he knows a lot of good musicians! He’s a friend of Gabe’s,” he explained. “In fact, he seems to know everyone.”

There was an awkward pause and then Pete nodded. “Mikey’s a good sort. I’ll introduce you.”

“Thanks,” Patrick said weakly, and subsided into silence.

**

It turned out, he didn’t have time to feel awkward when they reached Way House, because Gabe and Bill had just arrived and were handing off coats and hats and canes to the long-suffering footmen. Turning round, Gabe caught sight of Pete and Patrick, and grinned.

“Wentz,” he said cheerfully. “However fashionably late I am, you always manage to upstage me. And who is this complete stranger with you?” 

Patrick sighed. “Hallo, Gabe.”

“Oh, do you know me? It must have been a long time since we met. Darling, do you know this man?”

Bill took Gabe’s arm and peered at Patrick. “Vaguely, I think. I think we were once close, about a hundred years ago.”

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Pete said when Patrick thought his embarrassment might actually reach critical levels. “Don’t bully my guest.”

Gabe laughed and unceremoniously gathered Patrick into a hug. “You little shit,” he muttered into Patrick’s hair, before letting him go and holding him at arm’s length. “Bill was worried about you,” he announced.

“Yes,” Bill agreed. “Gabe, though, was a monster of indifference and was positively _hoping_ you’d died in a gutter.”

Gabe winced. “Too far, Bill. Too far.”

Pete looped an arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “Would I let him die in a gutter?” he asked, of the world at large, stole Patrick’s hat and handed it to a footman. “And he’s already doing penance by putting up with me for a few weeks. I’ve all-but kept him prisoner.”

“I did think we’d seen much less of you recently,” Gabe nodded.

“Small mercies,” Bill muttered, stealing Patrick from Pete and folding his arm around Patrick’s shoulders and holding him tightly. It wasn’t at all comfortable. (It was very reassuring.)

Gabe shot his husband a quelling look. “Mikey’s looking for you, by the way,” he told Pete, “and we’re holding up the receiving line. Come on, lambkins, let’s make our presence known.”

**

Patrick was introduced to the happy couple. The older of the two Way brothers, Viscount Alburgh, was apparently in a retiring mood, but his fiancé made up for it, beaming at Patrick, shaking his hand enthusiastically, and offering him a glass of wine. Patrick noted absently that his hands were covered in tattoos, like a sailor. Mr Iero had insisted Patrick call him Frank within minutes of meeting him and, following Patrick’s gaze to his inked knuckles, laughed.

“I ran away to sea as a boy; the tattoos helped me to blend,” he explained before furtively tugging his sleeves down over his hands. “I’d better keep them covered. No one here minds but it does upset Mama.”

He’d introduced Patrick to “Mr Robert Bryar,” (“call me Bob”), then gleefully abandoned him there when a tray of ice cream was produced, despite Viscount Alburgh’s plaintive “Frankie, no!”. Mr Bryar (“no, really. Call me Bob”) had just sold out of his regiment, and was an old friend of Mr Iero’s. 

Pete by this point was nowhere to be seen, but Mr Bryar (“ _please_ call me Bob?”) had pointed out Lord Michael Way, so wherever Pete was, it probably wasn’t disporting himself with the younger scion of the family. (Patrick reminded himself that he had no opinion on that whatsoever.) Gabe and Bill were still clearly visible, and Patrick smiled at Gabe, faintly surprised to realise he wasn’t loathing the evening as much as he had expected.

“So, Bob,” he said, and Bob heaved a sigh of relief, “what are you going to do now that you’re not a military man?”

“Go home. Breed dogs. Irritate my mother until she begs me to leave. The usual, really,” Bob said easily. “I’ll want to stay near my friends from the regiment.”

“Oh?” Patrick said, and wondered whether there was just something in the water this year.

Bob’s expression lifted, relief etched into the lines of his face, catching sight of someone over Patrick’s shoulder. “Yes, here’s one now, Captain Spencer Smith. Spencer, this is Mr Patrick Stump.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Spencer Smith said with the face of a man far too used to London parties. He was a little taller than Patrick, probably a few years younger, and he was one of the most terrifying men Patrick had ever seen.

“A-and you,” he stammered, and Spencer smiled. “Are you staying long in Town?”

“I live here,” Spencer said dryly, raising an eyebrow and smiling faintly. Abashed, Patrick seriously considered taking a permanent vow of silence. Turning to Bob, Spencer smiled a little wider. “I’ve been trying to detach Ryan from Lord Highleyton, but I’ve yet to manage it.”

“Um,” Patrick said, then decided recklessly that he might as well damn himself completely. “Who’s Ryan?”

Spencer eyed him, then smiled surprisingly sweetly. “My foster-brother,” he explained. “We normally keep him up at the University, but he’s allowed out sometimes, on good behaviour.” He paused. “Well, actually, we drag him out occasionally so that he doesn’t forget what people look like, but he seems to be getting along well with Wentz.”

“Pete’s a good sort,” Patrick volunteered weakly, and Spencer’s gaze turned shrewd.

“Maybe, but I could have wished he’d fixated on someone other than my brother,” he said simply. “S’cuse me, Mrs Howe is making her way over. Make my excuses to the Viscount, would you? And try to pry Ryan off Wentz when you leave, please.”

He disappeared back into the crowd. 

Patrick looked back at Bob. “Who’s this Ryan he was talking about?” he asked, friendly.

“The Smiths’ ward. Good family, bad circumstances,” Bob said, succinctly. “As far as I know, he’s been living with them for nigh on ten years now – they meet somewhere on the family tree, I think. The two boys went to school together; they’re very close. Ryan’s a little more academic than his brother, though.”

“Do you know him well?” Patrick asked politely, sipping at his wine.

“Spencer or Ryan?” Bob asked, and Patrick shrugged.

“Both, I suppose.”

“Well,” Bob considered, clearly not willing to commit himself too soon. “I know Spencer pretty well – we’re neither of us especially, ah, social, which is a bit of a drawback for men in our position. I met Spence after he first got his commission, hiding at the back of a ballroom.” He grinned a little. “He’d stolen my spot, and I thought, ‘well, if you’re talking, no one can make you dance’, so we got chatting, and we’ve got a lot in common. And as for Ryan, well. If you know Spencer, you can’t help but know Ryan. What about you? Why are you here? I’m a distant cousin of the Ways – something about our great grandmothers on my mama’s side, I think – but what penance are you doing?”

“Oh,” Patrick said, a little taken aback – he hadn’t expected to have to answer any questions himself, and he wasn’t quite sure what Pete would want him to say, or whether he could even really claim friendship with Pete just yet. “I’m, um. I’m a guest of Lord Highleyton’s.”

Bob raised an eyebrow. “Huh, Highleyton, really? I mean, one’s heard about him, of course, but I hadn’t realised he was still in London. I knew him a little, when we were younger, but he’s yet to renew that acquaintance with me.”

Patrick felt oddly protective. “He’s been busy,” he said defensively, and Bob smiled again. He had a very nice smile, Patrick noticed absently.

“Yes, so I’ve heard,” he agreed, a wealth of meaning in his voice, then his expression changed, glancing almost thoughtfully at Patrick, before adding, “you mustn’t worry about Mikey, you know.”

Patrick frowned. “I hadn’t realised he was ill,” he said slowly, suspecting that Bob meant something else entirely, but unwilling to draw conclusions. “I’m so sorry; you’re right, Pete will be upset if he’s unwell.”

Bob frowned. “No,” he said carefully, “I just meant that, if there’s an understanding between you and Lord Highleyton, Mikey’s far too thoughtful to get in the way.”

Patrick flushed to the roots of his hair, and shook his head fiercely. “There is no understanding between Lord Highleyton and me,” he said loudly and firmly, and a voice from behind him made him spin round, surprised.

“Oh, and I thought we were getting so well!” Pete said, faking misery.

Patrick jumped guiltily. “Um,” he said, wondering how he could explain this. Bob rescued him.

“Highleyton,” he said, bowing politely. “It’s been a while. And Ryan, I thought you’d left with Spencer.”

“Oh, has Spence left?” the tall, thin boy on Pete’s arm asked, glancing round vaguely, as though Spencer might pop up from behind a flower arrangement.

“Yes – Mrs Howe had him in her sights. He decided discretion was the better part of valour and retreated.”

“Probably wise,” Pete agreed, grinning. “Mrs Howe has been following me round all evening with her unfortunate child and pound signs in her eyes. Mr Ross was protecting me, but I’m told he has to return to his loving family at some point, so I came to throw myself on Patrick’s mercy. But apparently we have no understanding, so you’ll have to protect me, Bryar.”

“I’m sure Mr Stump can provide you with adequate protection, Highleyton,” Bob said, smiling a little unwillingly. “While I escort you home, Ryan.”

“I really don’t need an escort,” Ryan said, eyes flicking between Bob and Patrick.

Bob raised an eyebrow. “Do you remember how to get home?” he asked mildly, and Ryan looked shifty. “I thought not. Come on, I’ll have my carriage called.”

Patrick, left alone with Pete, thought wistfully of the days when he too had had a carriage that could be called at a moment’s notice. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Pete asked easily, nabbing a cup of syllabub and digging in with less-than-elegant enthusiasm. “You and Bryar seemed to be getting on well.”

“He’s very nice,” Patrick said, wondering whether he could really be expected to say more after half-an-hour’s acquaintance. “He said he knew you.”

“Once upon a time,” Pete agreed. “In my wilder days. I don’t think he approves of me very much – he’s an old friend of the Ways.” Patrick was left to wonder why, precisely, an old friend of the Ways who’d known Pete in his ‘wilder days’ would disapprove of him, but before he could follow that train of thought, Pete was discarding his half-eaten syllabub – Patrick winced at the waste – and had grabbed Patrick’s glass of wine and discarded that too. “Come on,” he said, taking Patrick by the arm, and pulling him through the crowd. “It’s a ball – you should dance.”

“Oh yes?” Patrick asked, amused and irritated in equal measure. “With whom?”

Pete gave him a quizzical look. “With me. I mean, I realise that we don’t have an _understanding_ , but-”

“Look, Lord Highleyton-”

“ _Pete_ ,” he said firmly, and Patrick glared at him.

“All I _meant_ was-”

“Explain later. I love this one!”

He grabbed Patrick’s hand and towed him out to the middle of the dance floor.

For a few moments, it was awkward – Patrick knew how to dance because he’d never been given a choice, but he hadn’t danced in a long time, and he was worried that he would have forgotten all the steps. He spent the first figure frowning at his feet and forgetting that Pete might actually want to converse with him.

Glancing up, he caught Pete’s eye and smiled, just a little sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he said nervously. “The last person I danced with was my sister, and that was six months ago.”

“Well, you clearly haven’t forgotten,” Pete said encouragingly. “Shall we talk?”

“Talk?”

“Yes. Talk. You know, I ask whether you’ve been to the theatre recently, or if you’ve ever taken the waters in Bath, or indulged in one of Lord Byron’s wild orgies, you make a non-committal reply, I smirk knowledgeably, and you simper. Forget you’re a rational creature – it won’t help.”

Patrick chuckled in spite of himself, then directed an apologetic glance at the young lady he’d nearly collided with. The figure separated them briefly, and when they came back together, Pete was wearing an expression of such deep attentiveness that Patrick just knew he was planning mischief.

“Have you been to the theatre recently, sir?” Pete asked, with great interest.

“Only a concert, sir,” Patrick replied, deciding he might as well indulge the madness.

“ _Only_ a concert, you say?” 

The steps separated them again, and they came back together for the promenade, Pete still beaming widely. “And have you been to Bath, sir?”

“Why, no, sir,” Patrick responded, beginning to smile despite himself.

“Pity,” Pete opined, and took Patrick’s hand for the next steps. “But I think I saw you recently at one of Lord Byron’s wild-”

“No,” Patrick said firmly, and Pete laughed, spinning away around the lady next to him. By the time he came forward again to take Patrick’s hands, he was wearing a smirk of ludicrous insincerity, and Patrick lost it.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out between giggles, and stepped back, out of the line of dancers, where he could laugh in peace.

Pete followed a couple of seconds later, grinning. “You let me down, Mr Stump,” he said, with fake disappointment. “You were supposed to simper winningly, and then it would have been your turn to ask me questions.”

“Yes, I could,” Patrick agreed, grinning at him. “Possibly about your worrying fixation with Lord Byron’s orgies.”

“Greta doesn’t let me have orgies,” Pete said sadly. “I have to live vicariously through him.”

“Shame,” Patrick said sympathetically. “Never mind – when you’re married, I’m sure your spouse will let you have as many orgies as you like.”

Pete narrowed his eyes. “Do you even know what an orgy _is_?” he asked shrewdly.

Patrick widened his own eyes ludicrously. “I think so,” he said, lowering his voice confidentially. “I _believe_ it’s something like a sewing circle.”

“Well, there are pricks involved,” Pete agreed thoughtfully, then they caught each other’s eyes and collapsed into grubby giggles.

“What are you two giggling about?” A voice from behind Patrick asked.

Pete looked over Patrick’s shoulder and beamed. “Orgies!” he said cheerfully, and Patrick abruptly wanted to die.

The longing for death increased when he realised just who was standing behind him. Lord Michael was looking at him curiously from behind a pair of spectacles.

Mikey shook his head. “That must be your new friend’s influence; as far as I remember, you were always strictly monogamous.” Despite his purported history with Pete, his tone was mildly curious rather than jealous. “Incidentally, are you ever going to introduce us, or shall we just stand here and stare at each other in silence?”

Pete snorted. “Brat. All right. Lord Michael, it’s my honour to introduce Mr Patrick Stump. Patrick, this is Mikey, Lord Michael Way, younger brother to Gerard, whom I think you met earlier. And I resent that implication,” he added, poking a finger into Mikey’s chest. “The fault is mine. Mr Stump is as pure as driven snow. He wouldn’t know an orgy if he interrupted one.”

“I think I’d recognise an orgy if I walked into it,” Patrick objected and then wondered why.

Mikey grinned at him. “Don’t worry. He corrupts everyone’s morals. After a while, the innuendo becomes background noise. Pleased to meet you, Mr Stump.”

“And you. Please, call me Patrick.”

“Patrick,” Mikey amended. “Pete, did you know there were drinks?”

“Yes, so?”

“So you could fetch us one,” Mikey said blandly. “Patrick, wine?”

“Er, lemonade, I think,” Patrick said apologetically, and Pete sighed, stomping off to find refreshment.

For a moment, Patrick and Mikey watched the dancers in silence.

“So, have you been staying with Pete long?” Mikey asked idly.

“No,” Patrick said, already wary. “About a fortnight.”

“Ah.” Another pause. “And how did you meet?”

Patrick wished he hadn’t been so quick to agree to Pete disappearing off to find them drinks. “I, um,” he said quietly, desperately trying to think of something innocuous. “We. I, um.” He took the plunge. “I’m his social secretary,” he said, and looked out at the dancers again.

Mikey gave him a long, impassive look. “Oh,” he said tonelessly. “Forgive me, I thought you were one of the Herefordshire Stumps.”

Patrick’s cheeks burned. “Oh, I am,” he said, feeling a little desperate. “But we – that is, I – Lord Highleyton asked.”

“Ah,” Mikey said again, without giving anything away.

Pete arrived back at Patrick’s side. “Here’s your wine, and here’s your lemonade, and you are both ungrateful swine,” he said, without pausing for breath. “I’m never doing anything for either of you again. How have you been amusing yourself without me?”

“Patrick was telling me how you two met,” Mikey said. Pete’s eyes flickered between them, probably seeing a great deal more than Patrick wanted. “A social secretary, Pete? Really?”

“I need someone to keep my giddy social calendar in order,” Pete said, without so much as glancing at Patrick. “Patrick’s just the only person brave enough to volunteer.”

“Well done Mr Stump,” Mikey raised his wine glass in toast. “But that’s not how you two met, you know. That’s why you’re staying with him.”

Pete frowned. “Why do you want to know?”

Mikey shrugged. “Can’t I be curious?” he asked, and Pete gave him a very long, shrewd look, before laughing a little. It sounded strained, and for one horrible moment, Patrick thought he was going to tell the truth. 

“I know you’re thinking something sordid,” he said, “and obviously I wish I could live down to your worst expectations, but actually it was at one of Mrs Lascombe’s drawing rooms. She was very insistent we meet, and while I never thought I’d be grateful to that old harridan, she was right this time.”

Mikey pulled a face. “If it’s Mrs Lascombe’s gently-guiding hand, I’m surprised the banns haven’t been read already.”

“She’s working on it,” Pete said easily, and Patrick desperately wanted to be anywhere else.

“I’m going to go and-” he said unintelligibly. “Excuse me.”

Bill and Gabe were lounging in a corner, and Patrick made a beeline for them, nabbing a glass of wine on the way and downing it. 

“Can I join you?” he asked, and even to his own ears it sounded pleading. 

Bill raised an eyebrow. “You don’t need to ask. Has Wentz been mistreating you?”

Patrick flushed miserably. “No, he’s been nothing but kind to me,” he said, and Gabe frowned.

“You make that sound like a bad thing,” he said, and Patrick waved a hand.

“No, no – I suppose I’m just a little tired of charity,” he said tiredly. He was wearing clothes that weren’t his, at a party to which he hadn’t warranted an invitation, and he would be driven home in a carriage that wasn’t his, to a house that wasn’t his, to sleep in a bed that wasn’t his – and as far as he could see, he only had one way to pay all this back.

He could only hope that he would live up to whatever expectations Pete had of a bed-partner.

“-if you like,” Gabe said and Patrick jumped. He’d been so wrapped up in his misery that he hadn’t realised Gabe was speaking.

“Sorry?” he said.

Gabe blinked. “I said you’d be welcome to stay with us for a while. If you wanted. I can appreciate it must be quiet at Stump house, but you don’t have to chain yourself to Pete for company. You have other options.”

“You should call round tomorrow,” Bill added quickly. “Really. It’s been far too long since we talked. I’d almost forgotten what you look like.”

Patrick smiled faintly. “Thank you. I’d love to, if Pete can spare me.”

Gabe snorted. “Damn Pete,” he said robustly. “Come anyway.”

“I’ll try,” Patrick promised. “Excuse me; it looks as though my party’s wrapping up for the night.”

Pete had apparently made his excuses to Mikey and was on his way over, dodging round the dancers. “Bill, Gabe. I hope you’ve not been telling Patrick hair-raising stories about me.”

“Only the worst ones,” Bill assured him cheerfully. “What’s wrong, Highleyton? Leaving so soon.”

“Don’t call me Highleyton. And yes. Greta pines without me. Are you ready, Patrick? Or if you don’t want to go, I can always send the carriage back for you.”

“No, no,” Patrick said hastily. “I’m coming now.”

“Don’t forget tomorrow, Patrick,” Bill said helpfully, spiking Patrick’s guns.

“What’s tomorrow?” Pete asked with interest.

“Patrick’s paying us a morning call,” Gabe told him. “You’re not invited.”

Pete pouted. “Fine. I know when I’m not wanted. Come along, Stump. Let’s get you home before you turn into a pumpkin. Your servant, Bill, Gabe.” He bowed, ridiculously formal, and tucked Patrick’s hand into his arm. It was oddly intimate, and Patrick felt himself tense fractionally, allowing himself to be led out of the room, pausing only to make their excuses to the happy couple.

No doubt remained that they were a happy couple. They were sitting as close together as propriety would allow – if not closer, despite the eagle-eyes of Frank’s mother, holding court in a chair a little way away – and Gerard kept darting looks at Frank like he couldn’t quite believe his luck. It made Patrick’s chest hurt a little - _he_ was unlikely to have that, with his prospects. If his reputation survived his deal with Pete, the best he could hope for was a mildly advantageous marriage in which love wouldn’t even enter the equation.

But these were dismal thoughts, and he tried to shake them off. There was no point dwelling on it.

**

The evening had gone rather well, Pete thought sleepily to himself the next morning. Once he’d reassured Mikey that Patrick wasn’t a gold-digger or even at all interested in Pete romantically, everything had gone quite smoothly, and his memory of dancing with Patrick – and the way Patrick had laughed with him, and gone along with his foolery – was pleasant to dwell on. He really was lovely when he smiled, and Pete intended to see to it that he smiled often.

Patrick was out, having breakfasted early, as was his habit, and Pete had let himself sleep in today. He could probably get away with breakfast in bed, provided Patrick stayed with Bill and Gabe for long enough.

“Andy!” he called, and Andy poked his head round the door, one eyebrow raised.

“Sir?” he said, long-suffering. “I see you’re indulging your aristocratic idleness once again. What did you want?”

“Breakfast?” Pete asked winningly. “I don’t think my useless aristocratic limbs will support me all the way to the dining room.”

“One day the proletariat will rise up and you will die because no one will feed you,” Andy told him amiably.

“True,” Pete agreed. “But while the social order is still standing, could you find me something to eat? And then something to wear? And find out what I’m supposed to be doing today?”

“You’re not supposed to be doing anything, you’re a feckless parasite living off the fat of society. Coffee or tea?”

“Oh… both. Might as well enjoy my ill-gotten gains while I can,” Pete grinned. “Before the barricades rise.”

He leant back against the pillows, and let his grin soften into a smile. Patrick had clearly been a hit last night – Pete’s plans to launch him back into society and find him a good match were underway, and Patrick had even looked as though he was enjoying himself. 

Next time, Pete would have to make him play the piano. It was practically criminal that Patrick wasn’t known already as a phenomenal musician.

Yes. Today was going to be a good day.

**

In Bill and Gabe’s drawing room, Patrick wasn’t feeling quite so sanguine. The butler, infinitely long-suffering and rather put-upon, had informed him that neither of the Viscounts Felson were up yet, but had left instructions that he be made welcome, just in case this very situation happened. The butler had departed, and a couple of minutes later, Patrick had heard a yelp and a thud overhead. 

It didn’t make him feel any better.

The conversation he’d had with Bill and Gabe the night before had left him with the impression that he should come ready to be interrogated. Six months ago, Patrick would have looked forward to a visit with two of his oldest friends, but now, after a prolonged absence, no money and in a precarious social situation, the last thing he wanted to do was sit down and talk about his life. There was so little of it he was going to be able to talk about.

It would have been fine if Bill and Gabe had been his friends alone; he could have lied with impunity. But Bill knew Pete better than Patrick did, and Gabe had met Pete before he’d even met Bill. Patrick couldn’t tell whose side they’d be on, and that made him more nervous than ever.

“Patrick!” Bill rushed in, looking harassed and half-dressed. His cravat was askew and he wasn’t wearing a coat. “I’m so sorry – but I asked Lane to see you had everything you wanted. Do you have everything you want? Some tea?”

Patrick eyed him. Bill hadn’t been drunk the night before, but after many years’ friendship, Patrick wouldn’t have been surprised if Bill and Gabe had continued the party when they got home. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Bill waved a dismissive hand. “It’s nearly eleven now; I might as well wait until lunch. Gabe’ll be down in a moment.” He flopped down into an armchair and waved Patrick into the chair opposite. “So! How are you?”

“You saw me last night,” Patrick pointed out.

Bill leered half-heartedly. “I hope Pete’s left your honour unsullied.”

Patrick twitched and forced a laugh. Trust Bill to hit far closer to the mark than he meant to. “Sorry as I am to disappoint you, yes,” he said dryly.

Bill yawned. “Shame. I was hoping for some juicy gossip. I’m a married man and life offers so few entertainments.”

“Hmm,” Patrick said sceptically, eyeing the bruise on the underside of Bill’s jaw.

Bill grinned. “Y’know,” he said thoughtfully. “You could do worse.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Than Pete. He’s a decent man. I think you could do well together,” Bill leaned back in his chair and contemplated Patrick with narrowed eyes. “You’re both short, for one.”

“All the qualification necessary for a happy marriage,” Patrick agreed, staring at him.

“Well, it’s got to be better than the two of us,” Bill said idly. “Don’t forget that your mama once had me in her sights for you.”

Patrick shuddered. “Please don’t remind me. Dear God, we’d have killed each other in a week.”

“I’m not that bad,” protested Bill mildly.

“Lies,” Gabe said from the door. “You are every bit that bad. Let me congratulate you, Patrick, on a lucky escape.”

“Thank you?” Patrick said uncertainly.

“Do you have everything you want?” Gabe asked, unusually solicitous. “I could call for some tea? You look like you could do with a few good meals. Lane could probably find you something – a ham sandwich, some porridge, a plate of macaroni and a rusk?”

“I already asked,” Bill said smugly.

“I’m really fine,” Patrick assured both of them.

“Alright, good,” Gabe nodded. “We can get down to business.”

“Business?” Patrick asked, his earlier nerves returning full-force.

“You’re probably wondering why we asked you here today,” Gabe said, and Bill frowned at him.

“We did want to just see you again,” he told Patrick, who glanced between them uncertainly.

“Yes, yes,” Gabe said testily, “but the point is, we’ve got a bone to pick with you, Stump. What’s this about you and Wentz?”

“What about me and Pete?”

“Oh, don’t even try,” Gabe told him, sitting down next to Bill. “You’re not subtle. Besides, we already know.”

Ice slipped down Patrick’s spine and settled into his stomach. “You know? Everything?”

“Everything?” Gabe asked, frowning. “Yes, we know everything. Pete came to see us the day you moved in with him. For God’s sake, Patrick, how could you let it get that bad without coming to us?”

“It’s kind of you,” Patrick muttered, thoroughly humiliated, “but I don’t like charity. That’s the reason for my arrangement with Pete.”

“It wouldn’t be charity, you idiot,” Bill said kindly. “That’s what friends are for.”

“Wait, what arrangement with Pete?” Gabe demanded.

“I thought you said you knew everything,” Patrick said, glancing at Gabe.

“Well, I thought we knew everything,” Gabe said, raising an eyebrow at Bill. “Please, fill us in. What is this arrangement?”

Patrick only just managed not to heave a deep, heartfelt sigh of relief. “Oh! I’m filling in as his social secretary,” he explained quickly. “You know. To work off my debt.”

Bill’s face went black. “‘Work off your debt’?” he repeated. “Patrick, it’s a hundred pounds. That means _nothing_ to an estate like Highleyton, and that’s without Pete’s own fortune.”

“But it’s not the money, is it,” Patrick argued. “It’s the principle of the thing. Perhaps if I’d lost it to you, or Gabe, we could have let it go, but I didn’t know Pete then. It’s a matter of honour as much as anything else.”

“Oh, hang honour,” Gabe said irritably. “If it means so much to you, we could have extracted you _honourably_ right from the start. And if Pete’s making this difficult, I will personally-”

“He’s not,” Patrick said wretchedly, and it wasn’t even a lie. Despite the details of their agreement, Pete had been nothing if not friendly towards Patrick. “I just,” he scrabbled around for an appropriate lie, “feel like a fool.” And that certainly wasn’t a lie.

“Why did you let things get so far?” Bill asked.

“I thought I could cope with it,” Patrick shrugged, wanting this over with. “And I _was_ coping with it, until suddenly – well. I wasn’t.”

“And _that_ was the point,” Gabe said, “when you should have come to us. Not struggled on like a brave little soldier, all alone in the world. You have _friends_ , Patrick.”

Patrick bristled. “Yes,” he retorted. “Friends I value too highly to treat as bank-rollers. I would have been so ashamed-”

“I don’t give a damn how ashamed you’d have been!” Gabe snapped. “ _Look_ at yourself, Patrick! You look ill!”

“Perhaps I do,” Patrick snapped back, temper rising, “and a hundred pounds from you wouldn’t have made any difference! I know you’re trying to help, but look at it from my perspective!”

“I am,” said Gabe, “and all common sense says you should have come to us.”

“And you would have come to me, would you? If you were so embarrassingly in debt?”

“Well, who’s debts _are_ they?!” Gabe demanded hotly. “They’re certainly not yours.”

“They’re not mine, but they’re not Megan’s either! And she’d have to deal with them if I didn’t. I’ll be damned if I pass debts onto my little sister.”

“But where did they come from!?”

“Where do you think, Viscount Felson? You’ve got no military background, you don’t know what it costs to be a soldier abroad, when you’ve already spent what you had to buy your commission. We were never a wealthy family, Kevin bought it for himself, and then got stranded in Spain. What could we have done, let him starve? And when he got home, were we supposed to just let him die? His wound was _green_ , Gabe. We went through four doctors before we found anyone who could help, and that was on top of my schooling and Megan’s, and the day-to-day costs of running a house. We borrowed money from everyone to keep afloat and keep Kevin alive.” Gabe looked horribly pitying, and Patrick pointed at him angrily. “And that, right there, is why I didn’t come to you. Do you think I enjoy having my friends look at me like that?”

“Alright,” Bill said soothingly, and his husband and Patrick both glared at him.

After a second or so of angry silence, Patrick deflated. “Kevin wanted to pay back the debts,” he said, very quietly. “But you know what happened. And here I am.”

“Hm,” Gabe still didn’t look happy, but nor did he look as though he was about to hold Patrick hostage.

“But I thought you sold Westcote House,” Bill pointed out encouragingly.

Patrick nodded without looking at either of them. “It paid off the debts,” he agreed listlessly, “and gave me the money to pay off most of the servants, which I had to do, because without Westcote, I don’t have a source of income.”

“And Megan?” Bill prodded.

“She’s provided for,” Patrick said heavily. “I made sure of it.”

Gabe nodded. “Alright. But what about you? Are _you_ provided for?”

Patrick smiled humourlessly. “Well, as you see, I’m very good at battening on to wealthy strangers.”

“Tell me that’s not something you heard,” Bill said, sitting up and looking angry for the first time.

“No, of course not,” Patrick said, waving him off. “That’s just rather how I feel at the moment.”

“Well, don’t. Pete never does anything he doesn’t want to,” Gabe told him, and Patrick smiled weakly. He’d rather got that impression.

**

By the time he got back to the house at Brunswick Square, he’d been finagled into staying for lunch with Gabe and Bill, and arrived back armed with an invitation to dinner for both him and Pete.

It hadn’t been an entirely successful morning, but at least Gabe and Bill didn’t seem to be holding a grudge any longer, and they’d parted on friendly terms, once they had extracted from Patrick a promise to visit regularly.

“We’ll hunt you down if you don’t,” Gabe said cheerfully, and Patrick had acquiesced meekly rather than argue.

Back at Pete’s house, he found Pete in the drawing room, idly sitting at the piano. 

“I don’t play nearly as well as you do,” Pete said, when he saw Patrick. “But you’ve shamed me into practising. Have you heard Greta play? She’s fantastic.”

“She is,” Patrick agreed. “But from what she says, you could be good to, if you practised.”

“Which is what I’m doing now,” Pete said, waving a hand at the music. “But please. Play for me. I’ve been listening to myself for so long, I’ve forgotten what good music sounds like. Please?”

Patrick shot him a gimlet-eyed look. “If this is to get out of practising…”

“Of _course_ it’s to get out of practising,” Pete admitted cheerily. “But also because I like hearing you play. Is it pushing it to ask you to sing?”

“Yes. But give me a ballad, if you really want.”

“How about the Ash Grove?”

“That’s a dirge,” Patrick objected.

“I know. Sing it anyway. Unless you’d rather we revisited the Little Turtle-Dove?”

“Ash Grove it is,” Patrick agreed hastily. He sat down and spread his fingers over the keys, just for the feel of the ivory under his finger-tips. “I’m not sure I can remember all the words,” he said warningly, “but since you asked for it: _down yonder green valley, where streamlets do something_ -”

“Meander,” Pete interjected.

“ _Thank you, Lord Highleyton, just sing it yourself. I don’t know the words, I’ll just make them u-up, all day I go mourning in search of my love_ -”

“Why is that the only bit you remember?!”

**

Pete listened to him all the way through to the end with rapt attention. Even with the shaky lyrics and the occasional riff into something else in the accompaniment, Patrick’s singing was still one of the best things he’d ever heard. But Patrick’s laugh was better still, and he giggled helplessly when he finished the song, already singing the last few lines around his laughter. 

It struck Pete that he’d miss this when Patrick got married.

Which reminded him. “Oh, we’ve had an invitation,” he said easily, when Patrick had pulled himself together.

“Oh?” Patrick asked, and Pete wished he hadn’t said anything, because all that careless laughter had drained away, and Patrick looked tense and wary again.

“From Mrs Lascombe. She was very insistent – I worry that refusing would actually rend society in two.”

“Well, I suppose we’d best go, then. For the sake of society. When is it?”

“Tomorrow night. I hope you’re not already booked.”

“I think my calendar’s relatively free, and so is yours, unless you’ve planned anything without telling me, which would rather defeat my purpose here.”

“No – you know I wouldn’t dream of stirring out of doors without consulting you,” Pete promised, fulsomely, trying not to notice the way Patrick’s smile brightened his whole face.

“Well, as it happens, I’ve rather made an engagement for you,” Patrick said shiftily. “With Bill and Gabe? I said we’d dine with them, on Friday.”

“Talking for both of us now, are you?”

“I am your social secretary,” Patrick pointed out, and Pete was delighted to see that Patrick was no longer quite as wary of him as he had been. “It’s my job to think of these things so you don’t have to. You know.” The wariness came back full-force. “Among other things, of course.”

Pete frowned, a little confused, but let it go. “Well, I’m always delighted to see Bill and Gabe,” he said easily. “Now, if you can spare me, I’ve got letters I should probably write – I’m reliably informed that cotton mills don’t run themselves. You won’t be bored, by yourself?”

“No! I’ll be fine. I’ll probably play for a while.”

“Excellent! I’ll see you at dinner, then. Don’t run away!” Patrick made a funny noise, a little like a rabbit being hit by a carriage, and Pete was, once again, reminded why Patrick was at his house at the first place. Rather than apologise, he made good his escape.

He paused outside the door, and pulled a face at himself. ‘Don’t run away’? Sometimes he astonished even himself – and not in a good way.

**

Patrick spent the next few hours writing down a tune which had been torturing him ever since he found himself with access to a piano again – despite the unfortunate circumstances. Or perhaps because of them? They always said artists worked best in adverse circumstances, and while Patrick certainly didn’t consider himself to be an artist, the tune had a minor edge to it that perfectly reflected how he was feeling just now. The worst part, he reflected, was knowing how much he would have been enjoying himself if circumstances had been different – but that was a fruitless thought, and he pushed it away to focus on his composition.

After dinner, Pete led the way into the drawing room, denying any intention to sit with the port, and encouraged Patrick to sit down at the piano while he perused the bookshelves.

“I heard you playing earlier,” he said idly, flicking through a volume of Cowper. “It sounded wonderful, what was it?”

Patrick looked shifty. “Nothing,” he said evasively, and Pete was on it like a dog with a bone.

“Nothing’s not worth hiding,” he said instantly, and Patrick pulled a face.

“It’s just a silly tune I’m working on,” he said dismissively. “It’s not ready for public consumption. I mean. It’ll _never_ be ready for public consumption. But it’s not even ready for my friends to hear it.”

Pete looked a little surprised – albeit surprisingly pleased – to be placed among the (sparse) ranks of Patrick’s friends, but sadly didn’t lose sight of the point. “Please? I’ll be terribly complimentary.”

Patrick heaved a sigh. “You’re not going to shut up about this, are you?” he said pessimistically.

“Nope! I’ve been told I’m tenacious.”

“That’s not always a compliment,” Patrick told him repressively.

“Please?” Pete pulled the most ridiculous face in his repertoire, and looked delighted when Patrick blatantly fought down a smile.

“Fine,” Patrick agreed with a bad grace. “But it’s not good.”

There was ominous silence when he finished playing, and Patrick swivelled round on the stool to look at Pete uncertainly. “I said wasn’t good,” he began defensively, and Pete stared at him.

“ _That’s_ not good?” he squeaked. “ _Why_ aren’t you the toast of London yet? I don’t understand. Did the whole of London go blind and tone-deaf while I was in India? That was one of the most beautiful things I’ve heard in years.”

“I think most of London is indifferent to my charms,” Patrick said dryly, and Pete snorted.

“Most of London is stupid,” he said bluntly. “They wouldn’t know talent if it slapped them in the face. You’re amazing.”

Patrick couldn’t quite suppress the pleased flush, looking down at his hands while he waited for it to subside. He might be a sure thing as far as Pete was concerned, but it was still nice to feel valued, particularly for something he actually cared about. “You’re very kind,” he murmured.

“No I’m not,” Pete said unrepentantly. “I’m a bastard. I just happen to be a bastard who recognises talent when I see it. Or hear it. If it makes you feel better, you can read some of my writings. I don’t have any talent like you, but turnabout’s fair play.” He turned back to the bookshelf and brightened. “Oh! Let me read you one of my favourite books!”

“Not your poetry?” Patrick asked, just a little disappointed. 

Pete snorted again. “Please. My poetry is best enjoyed alone and drunk. Alone, drunk and starved of all other options. Please? I haven’t read _Udolpho_ in years.”

Patrick groaned. “Oh, no. You’re not into the Gothic, are you?”

Pete drew himself up, clearly ready for a fight. “What’s wrong with the Gothic?”

“Well, for starters, I’m not a fifteen-year-old girl, and neither are you. We are both more than old enough to know better. And secondly, I don’t much enjoy overblown melodrama with plotholes you could march a regiment through.”

“Have you ever even read any Gothic fiction?” Pete demanded, and Patrick knew he looked shifty. “I thought not!” Pete crowed, triumphant. “I bet your honoured parents wouldn’t have it in the house. Come on, try it. Let me read you some.”

“Fine,” Patrick allowed reluctantly. “But I promise you I won’t like it.”

**

“I told you you’d like it,” Pete told him smugly about an hour later, his voice a little hoarse. He drained his cup of tea and pulled a face. “Ugh, cold.”

“No, but where does Valancourt go?” Patrick demanded. He was still sat on the piano stool, one foot tucked up under him. His hair was hectic where he’d run his hands through it in exasperation.

Having spent the first ten minutes picking apart each tiny detail, Patrick had soon succumbed to the mystery of the novel, if not the plot. He heartily despised Emily as a protagonist, but had attached his affections strongly to Valancourt. Pete, who had done the same when he’d first read the novel, took this as a good sign.

“I know, it’s dreadful, I had to skip ahead to make sure he came back. And Emily does get better, you know,” he added fairly. “She grows on you.”

“Like a particularly persistent form of mould,” Patrick agreed distastefully. “Well, I concede it’s not totally shoddy. I mean, it would lose absolutely nothing if Emily succumbed to that weird wasting disease and the rest of the novel focused on Valancourt’s grief – although, of course, he’d probably be so overwhelmed by the sublimity of nature that he’d get distracted from mourning by a passing squirrel.”

Pete laughed. “Very likely. It wouldn’t surprise me if Valancourt was more interested in the squirrel than in Emily.”

“The squirrel would probably be more intelligent.”

“Harsh.”

“Fair.”

“But you like it,” Pete pressed, and Patrick grinned, looking deliberately shifty.

“I wouldn’t say _like_ -” 

“You sat here and listened to me read it for an hour,” Pete pointed out. “You like it.”

“You were clearly one of those dreadful boys who wanted to be aloof and mysterious. Be honest, you modelled yourself on Lord Byron, didn’t you? And took an accidental left-turn into Montoni.”

Pete feigned hurt. “Please. I look magnificent in my grandmother’s opera cloak. The moth-holes add a certain je-ne-sais-quoi.” He paused, then admitted ruefully, “and I think I’m probably more a Count Morano than Montoni.”

Patrick laughed easily. “Oh, I don’t know. You’re successfully holding me hostage, aren’t you?”

Pete’s smile faded – he didn’t want to remember why Patrick was here. He preferred to think of Patrick as a friend, even if that was an exercise in self-delusion. The trouble was, it was really far too easy to think of Patrick as a friend.

Patrick looked a little bit shamefaced, and there was an awkward silence.

It was only broken when Greta poked her head around the door. “Would you like a posset before you go to bed, sir?” she asked pointedly. “Or perhaps some more candles in here?”

Pete glanced at the clock – it was ten past one. “Oh, Lord, and I have to be up early tomorrow,” he said ruefully. “No posset for me, thank you. Mr Stump?”

Patrick looked distinctly uncomfortable. “No. Thank you.”

Greta glanced between them. “Well, do just ring if there’s anything you want,” she said, more pointedly still, and Pete laughed.

“We’re going to bed,” he promised, and there was a loud thud as Patrick knocked the stool over as he climbed off it.

“Sorry, sorry!” he said, looking a little white-faced, and Pete exchanged a confused glance with Greta.

“I’ll bid you both goodnight then, sirs,” she said slowly, and withdrew. 

They faced each other across the drawing room. Patrick had set the stool back upright, and was standing in front of it, his stance curiously defensive. It seemed to take an effort of will for him to meet Pete’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “And I really did enjoy the book. Perhaps – perhaps you could… read more of it? Another time? If you’re not too busy?”

Pete shrugged, then made a conscious decision to let go of his hurt. “Of course,” he said. “And if you want a Gothic book with a fractionally less irritating heroine, you should try The Monk. I have it upstairs, if you’d like to borrow it? Come to my room, I’ll give it to you.”

**

Patrick tried to relax as he followed Pete upstairs. The only thing that could make all this worse would be tensing through it, he reasoned, but that didn’t help. His heart was racing, and he was almost panting with nerves by the time they got to the top of the stairs. 

Pete looked at him oddly as he opened the door to his room. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“F-fine,” Patrick stammered, and Pete paused, then shrugged, turning to root through a pile of stuff on the desk under his window. 

Patrick hovered just inside the door. “You can come inside, you know,” Pete told him, still facing away from him. “I promise I don’t bite.” He threw a quicksilver grin over one shoulder. “Not unless you ask.” Patrick tried his hardest to smile back, but knew it was just a pale imitation of a real smile. “No, really, are you alright? You’ve gone white.”

“Just the light,” he choked out, and Pete gave him a long look, then shrugged again. 

“Here it is,” he said, handing over a much slimmer volume than _Udolpho_. Patrick took it from him with numb fingers, and hovered awkwardly for a few more seconds. “Well, goodnight,” Pete said slowly, eyeing him again.

Patrick jerked his head up to stare at him. This was an unexpected turn of events. “What? You aren’t going to-?” he cut himself off viciously. There was no reason to _invite_ this.

Pete frowned. “Um? We could read some of it after we’ve finished with _Udolpho_ if you’d like, but I’d quite like to try and sleep now?”

“Of course. Of course!” Reprieve granted, Patrick stepped backwards quickly, and naturally tripped himself up. Pete caught him.

“Try not to maim yourself on the way to bed,” he said, grinning, and Patrick beamed back. He could feel the slightly crazy edge to the smile, and could only imagine what it must look like to Pete.

“No. I won’t! Goodnight then. Bye.”

He made his escape down the corridor, and only really breathed when he shut the door to his own room behind him.

**

The next day was only really awkward for Patrick. He didn’t know who to be cross with: Pete, for scaring him like that, or himself for apparently wildly misreading the signs. Etiquette books just didn’t cover this kind of social situation. Then again, Pete must have known what Patrick was thinking, though Patrick couldn’t quite believe he’d be so cruel as to wind his nerves up and then pretend he didn’t understand why Patrick was nervous.

He got his own back by making the whole day as awkward as possible. The second time he saw Pete disappear from a room as he entered on the thinnest of pretexts, he felt like shouting after him, ‘this is how awkward I can be in society! Imagine how much worse I am _in bed_!’

He didn’t, of course. He merely picked up his book and congratulated himself on a job well done.

It did mean a rather lonely lunch, though – Pete had once again retreated to his club, something he hadn’t done since the first day. Patrick was left to dine alone.

Mrs Lascombe’s party meant that Pete did have to come home in the afternoon, by which point Patrick had steadied himself, and was able to greet him with a smile.

Pete gave him a wary look. “Are you feeling better?” he asked pointedly. “You were a little – ah – jumpy, this morning.”

Two could play at this game, Patrick thought grimly. “Yes, I have absolutely no idea what came over me,” he said, staring hard at Pete, who looked confused.

“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Pete tried, then visibly shook off his confusion, grinning and looking altogether far too pleased with himself. Patrick hated him. “Come outside! I have something to show you.”

“What is it?” Patrick asked, and Pete shook his head, beckoning him outside and leading him round to the stable-yard. “It’s not something awful, is it?”

“I hope not?” Pete said, and tugged Patrick into the stable-yard. “Would I do that to you? No. No, I wouldn’t.” Patrick fought down the urge to say that experience rather said otherwise. “Look. She’s yours!”

Patrick looked up, and came nose to nose with a small, brown horse. “Oh,” he said, totally at a loss for something to say. Pete, mercifully, didn’t appear to notice – or even really require his input.

“She’s very docile,” he was saying, patting the horse and taking her halter from the groom, who bowed awkwardly and made himself scarce. “In fact, she’s so docile it’s difficult to get her to move. And she’s very light on the mouth, so it’s easy to get her to stop! And I’m assured she’s very sweet-tempered, though I’m going to send the grooms out with her before we take her out. Just in case she’s a bolter or she’s got any hidden character flaws. Her name’s Lucky Sixpence! But you can call her whatever you like. She’s yours.”

“You bought me a horse,” Patrick said, unable to get past this one, salient point.

“Well, yes,” Pete said slowly. “Much though I like walking, I miss riding.”

“Oh,” Patrick said blankly, and absently stroked a hand down the horse’s neck. Lucky Sixpence apparently decided that Patrick’s hair was food and lipped at it, whickering in disgust when it became clear that it wasn’t edible. 

“She likes you!” Pete said, with what Patrick felt was undue optimism.

“Pete,” Patrick said helplessly. “I don’t know what to - _thank you_ , but I-” The mare must have cost so much money, and when Patrick left, he didn’t know whether Pete would have any use for her. “She’s beautiful.”

“I hope you’ll like her,” Pete said smugly, then paused, adding with disarming honesty, “I’m not a very good judge of horses, but I took my groom. Mr Carden likes horses more than he likes people, so I thought he’d be a good judge of character. Do you really like her?”

“She’s-” too much, Patrick thought, then sighed, “lovely.” It was worth it to see Pete smile delightedly. 

“Good! Mr Carden will take her out today, put her through her paces,” Patrick glanced at an impassive man standing by the mounting block, who nodded to him, “and we’ll go out tomorrow, if you feel like it.”

“Great!” Patrick said, possibly with a little too much enthusiasm. Pete raised an eyebrow at him.

“We’ll be very decorous and slow,” he promised, and Patrick had to smile.

“You couldn’t be decorous if you tried,” he retorted.

“Please! My valet says I’m nothing but a useless decoration.”

“Nonsense,” Patrick said robustly. “Forget decoration. You’re just useless.”

Pete slung an arm round his shoulder and led him out of the stable yard. “It’s just our class, Patrick,” he said encouragingly. “Don’t worry. You’re useless too!”

**

Pete dressed so conservatively for Mrs Lascombe’s party that Patrick began to worry that his own clothes were a little too flamboyant. Pete assured him that Mrs Lascombe wouldn’t apply as rigorous a standard of criticism to him, but Patrick fidgeted all the way there, and felt himself twitching nervously as they were ushered into the drawing room.

“Peter! You came!” Mrs Lascombe bustled forward. She didn’t sound entirely thrilled, but she eyed him approvingly. “Nicely turned out, good boy.”

Patrick bit his lip to stifle the giggles as Pete squirmed. “Thank you,” Pete said, in no very grateful tone. “You remember Patrick, ma’am.”

“Mr Stump, how lovely to see you again,” she said, giving him her hand. Patrick bowed over it, uncomfortably sure she was marking him for his performance.

“The pleasure’s all mine, ma’am,” he said weakly, and heard Pete snort quietly behind him.

“Crawler,” Pete hissed at him as Mrs Lascombe left them with a ‘do make yourselves at home’.

Easier said than done, Patrick thought. When Mrs Lascombe said ‘a few good friends’, he had expected fifteen people at the very most – there had to have been thirty people in that room, and they were all talking with the ease of old friends, a trick Patrick had never mastered, even with people who were actually old friends. The abundance of candles, and the footmen drifting through with food made everything seem still more crowded. 

It would have been a pleasant room, he thought rather desperately, had it not been for the people. 

Then he saw someone who looked just as uncomfortable as he did and grinned, breaking away from Pete.

“Bob!” he said, unaccountably grateful to see him despite their very short acquaintance.

“Patrick, how nice to see you,” Bob said dismally, with a short, formal bow. He turned again to look out over the room. “Isn’t it hateful?” he said quietly, and Patrick laughed, particularly when he saw that in his efforts to reach them, Pete had been stymied by four simpering mamas, each no doubt in possession of wall-eyed children and each in a more fantastic turban than the last. Pete disappeared under a cloud of gently waving ostrich feathers, and Patrick was laughing too hard to mourn him. 

“So are you here by yourself?” he asked, when he’d pointed out Pete’s predicament to Bob and they’d shared a cruel chuckle. “Where’s Mr Smith?”

“Spence? Oh, he’s not required.”

“And you are?” Patrick asked, and Bob took a grim gulp of wine.

“Oh yes. Mrs Lascombe knows my mama.”

“Does she know _everyone’s_ mama?”

“Quite possibly,” Bob said bleakly. “Every so often, she and my mother put their heads together and decide to get me married, and here I am.” He drained his glass.

“I see,” Patrick said, not seeing at all, and Bob flashed him a quick grin.

“This is one of Mrs Lascombe’s famed ‘on-the-shelf’ parties, the last hope of desperate Society mothers and maidens past their last prayers,” he said, probably with more drama than he’d intended, and Patrick grinned.

“It’s like a play,” he said wonderingly, and Bob actually laughed.

“I wish it were – then we could all go home at the end of it, and it would be safe to laugh. Oh, she may call it ‘one of my little drawing-room parties, just a few close friends!’, but swimming with pike would be safer.” Bob’s imitation of his hostess was eerily accurate, and Patrick bit his lip to hold back a truly ungentlemanly snigger. 

There was a pause, both of them watching Pete’s struggles to get free of the mothers apathetically. “Wait,” Patrick said, revelation striking, “does this mean _I’m_ on the shelf?”

“You’re over twenty and there’s no ring on your finger,” Bob shrugged. “Yeah, you’re on the shelf. Mind you, you did arrive here with Highleyton, so that’s a feather in your cap. Um,” he waved a hand at the mothers and their turbans, “figuratively speaking, of course.”

“Pete’s nearly thirty,” Patrick pointed out.

“Nothing wrong with being nearly thirty,” Bob said staunchly.

“No, I just meant, isn’t he on the shelf?”

Bob held up a hand. “Au contraire,” he said, deadpan. “As a reluctant but oddly frequent attendee of these parties, I know that people like Highleyton are never on the shelf. He’s the older son, _and_ he has more money than God. People like that don’t have shelves, they have pedestals. And it’s up to the younger,” he gestured at Patrick, “poorer,” he laid a hand on his own chest, “people like us to rappel up to them.”

“Poor Pete,” Patrick murmured. Pete was by now entirely obscured from view. The only sign of his presence was the frantically-waving feathers that were a sure sign of excitement in a society matron.

“Don’t waste your pity on him,” Bob advised. “Save it for yourself. You’ll need it.”

Patrick wasn’t paying attention. “Would you excuse me?” he asked. “I think he’s in need of rescue.”

“Oh?” Bob gave him an uncomfortably knowing look.

“Excuse me,” Patrick muttered, and fought his way back into the crowd.

It was almost impossible to reach Pete through the sheer volume of silk surrounding him, but Patrick was made of sterner stuff than even he knew, and made free use of his elbows and an apologetic smile.

“Pete! There you are! Mr Bryar’s asking after you, come on. Excuse me, ladies.” He flashed the assembled matrons his most angelic smile, and received a glare in return for his pains, before grabbing Pete’s hand and dragging him free of the melee. 

“ _Thank you_ ,” Pete said, disarmingly sincere, and they shared a conspiratorial grin.

“Come on,” Patrick told him. “I think they’ve got negus through here, and you look like you could use a restorative.”

“One of Greta’s calming possets, please,” Pete said weakly. “I think I need to lie down. Oh! Bryar is here. I thought you just invented him.”

“I don’t think that quickly,” Patrick admitted freely.

“Yes, I’ve seen him at these things before. I don’t normally get to talk to him, though.”

“How so?”

“That happens,” Pete said disgustedly, jerking a thumb at the now gossiping mamas. “Last time I was stupid enough to present myself at one of Mrs Lascombe’s ‘select gathering of friends!’, I was your age. I was nearly eloped with.”

“I’m sure you’d have been very happy together,” Patrick said solemnly.

“The boy made up for his lack of brains with an extravagant squint,” Pete told him. “One of us would have been dead before we reached Gretna Green, and it would probably have been me. Not brainy, but cunning. Like a stoat.”

Patrick laughed and handed Pete a cup. “It’s all over now,” he soothed. “Drink your negus.”

Bob raised an eyebrow as they got back to him. “Highleyton, you’re alive. I thought they’d have torn you apart by now.”

“Bob was worried that all they’d find of you would be a handkerchief and your shoe-buckles,” Patrick agreed.

“Nonsense,” Pete said heartily. “They need me whole.”

“We were afraid they were going to go all ‘judgement of Solomon’ on you,” Bob confided. “‘Well, alright, cut him in half if you must – but I want the left side, mind!’”

Pete shuddered, but Mrs Lascombe bustled up to them before he could retort. “What are you three doing, hiding over here?” she demanded. “Robert, there’s a charming young lady I’d like to introduce you to. Peter,” she snapped, and Pete jumped to something approaching attention, “I’m putting together a little musical performance, perhaps you’d like to join?”

“I’d love to listen,” Pete said, lying convincingly, “and if you’re short of a performer, I can’t recommend Patrick highly enough.” Patrick cast him a look of betrayal. “No, really – he plays beautifully, and he sings like an angel.”

“Really, Mr Stump?” Mrs Lascombe said brightly, turning her steely gaze towards him. “Perhaps you would oblige us? No, no – I absolutely insist,” she said when Patrick opened his mouth. “Do come through.”

“I should have left you to the mamas,” Patrick muttered to Pete. “I’ll get you later.”

“Promises,” Pete whispered back, grinning at him as Patrick was towed away, and Patrick shot him a look of venomous dislike.

Patrick had been so busy hating Pete for getting him into this mess that he almost forgot to be nervous until he realised that Mrs Lascombe had organised half the party into her music room and Patrick was due to play next. The congratulations for the last performer died down into expectant silence as Patrick settled himself on the stool, wondering frantically what he was supposed to do. He hadn’t played in public for four years, and then only under duress. 

Forget the deal he’d made with Pete – this was one of the most terrifying things he’d ever done. If Pete had demanded his dues at that very moment, Patrick would have gone with a smile.

**

Leaning insouciantly against the back wall, in full expectation of some rare entertainment, Pete watched as Patrick shifted on the stool, as wary as a witch at a ducking.

“Poor kid,” Bob said, next to him. “It’s going to be a bloodbath.”

“Hmm?” Pete said, eyes on Patrick.

“With an expression like that? He looks like he’s going to an execution – probably his own. And I can see him shaking from here. Can he actually play, Highleyton? Or were you just making sport?”

“No! He’s brilliant.”

“He’s not going to be,” Bob said. On the stool, Patrick swallowed, and put his hands tentatively back on the keys. 

Pete made a split-second snap decision. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he raised his voice, and the entire room jumped. “How can you play with no one to turn the pages for you?” He picked his way through the chairs, and came to stand on Patrick’s left side, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Is this the music?” he asked, _sotto voce_.

“I was just going to play from memory,” Patrick said, white-faced, “but I can’t remember anything.”

“What about the Schubert? That was good.” Patrick nodded, shakily.

“Schubert,” he agreed, and Pete grinned, raising his voice a little.

“This, is it?” he said, picking a book at random. “Wonderful. On you go, then.” Lowering his voice again, he murmured, “just imagine no one’s here except me.” 

Patrick paused again, then nodded, physically steeling himself and putting his fingers on the keys. “Alright,” he murmured, half to himself, and began to play.

The look of chagrin on the faces of fully half the matchmaking mamas made Pete’s evening there and then. Patrick played beautifully, and with an ease that couldn’t be learnt and put most of this evening’s musical aspirants to shame. Pete was rather enjoying being tarred with the same brush, turning pages at random, and grinning out at the room. 

The applause when Patrick finished was rather half-hearted, though Pete more than made up for it. “That’s a good sign,” Pete told him under the cover of the clapping. “When you anger the mamas, it’s a sure sign that you play better than their children could.”

“I’m sure that will be a comfort when they cut me,” Patrick said back, out of the corner of his mouth, and Pete put a hand on his shoulder, bowing. They headed back towards Bob, one of the few people who wasn’t glaring at Patrick, and who shook his head at them.

“That was quite the performance,” he greeted them, and Patrick frowned.

“Thank you?” Bob hadn’t sounded that complimentary.

“Actually, I didn’t mean you – but yes, it was magnificent. You went wildly off-tempo at one point, but I figured that was probably Wentz here leaning across you. No, I meant you, Highleyton. Nicely played. When should I expect to hear news of your engagement?”

“What,” Patrick said flatly.

Pete snorted. “Not even the mamas have that good an imagination.”

“Oh, they don’t need an imagination,” Bob said, smiling a little. “Not now that you’ve sprung to Mr Stump’s aid, whispered tenderly in his ear, and stood supportively by his side for his performance. And even if you hadn’t done any of that, your lovesick applause would have been enough.”

“I didn’t do any of that,” Pete objected.

“You did all of that,” Bob corrected him.

“Oh,” Pete frowned, then shrugged. “Well, if it’ll keep them off me for the duration of the party…”

Patrick had been watching them. “I think you’re both mad,” he announced. “Does anyone want a drink?”

“Claret, if they’ve got it,” Pete said absently, looking rather thoughtful.

“What, not going to fetch and carry for your paramour, Highleyton? I thought better of you,” Bob said, grinning openly by now. “And I’m fine, thanks.” Patrick shook his head and disappeared into the crowd; Bob turned back to Pete. “No, but seriously, what’s your game?”

Pete held up his hands. “He was nervous! And I know he’s brilliant, so I just wanted to make sure everyone else knew he was brilliant too.”

Bob stared at him. “All this for a man you’ve got no intention to marry?”

“Difficult though it may be to believe, I’m capable of simple friendship, you know,” Pete said tartly. “Friends like Patrick.”

“Not at one of these affairs,” Bob said. “In this room, you’re either hunted or hunter, and you just staked a claim.”

“Nonsense,” Pete retorted robustly.

“Fine,” Bob shrugged. “Disbelieve me if you like, but they’ll be betting on you in the clubs by the weekend.” His expression changed minutely, which was all the warning Pete got before Mrs Lascombe had clamped a hand down on his shoulder.

“Peter, that was wonderful. Mr Stump is such a gifted performer! You must be so proud. Tell me, how long have you known him?”

Pete cast a desperate glance at Bob, who was surreptitiously edging away and was thus no help at all. “Um. About three weeks.”

“Such a short time. Whirlwind romance, was it?”

“It’s not a romance,” Pete said, once and for all. “I’m not marrying anyone.”

“Hm. You should really think about it,” Mrs Lascombe told him tartly. “He seems like a lovely boy. And one you appear to dote on.”

“I was turning pages,” Pete said, incredulous.

“ _Fondly_ ,” she said firmly. “We all saw how quickly you came to help him.”

“Yes. Help him _turn pages_ ,” Pete said, exasperated. He hadn’t thought the Ton could get any crazier, but apparently it had during his absence. 

“It’s only a short leap from friendship to love!”

“From turning pages to marriage?!”

Mrs Lascombe ignored him, as she was wont to do. “What is his family? Are they good people?”

“I think so,” Pete said vaguely. He could see Patrick return with the drinks and promptly get mobbed by society ladies.

“You _think_ so? Honestly, Peter, you should do your research.”

“Research?” repeated Pete dumbly. “I – oh look.” Patrick was casting him a pleading look. “I should. Probably.”

With a silent bow, he headed towards Patrick, thoroughly grateful for the reprieve.

“Ladies,” he said cheerfully. “I hate to monopolise him, but I need Patrick for a couple of minutes.” He couldn’t reach Patrick’s hand so he settled for grabbing him by the shoulder instead, and towing him backwards out of the crush.

“Thank you,” Patrick said sincerely, handing Pete his glass. “Here’s to never coming to one of these things again.”

Grimly, Pete clinked his glass against Patrick’s and drained it.

**

He soon found that, however little he might like it, his actions had had consequences. A brief visit to his club the next day revealed that odds had shortened against him marrying by the end of the year, and people were starting to bet on whether he’d choose Patrick or one of the newly arrived beauties. Pete had tried to laugh it off, and thankfully, most people seemed to be in favour of the beauty, but the fact that Patrick’s name had come up at all was worrying. Pete was determined to set Patrick up advantageously – preferably, he thought absently, with someone he liked, so that they could continue to socialise regularly – and having their names linked in gossip wasn’t going to do Patrick any favours.

He’d also forgotten the sheer size of the gossip network which spanned London. From his point of view, he had rescued Patrick from society ladies. The next day, he heard that he had listened raptly to Patrick play the piano before kissing Patrick’s hand and escorting him from the room, murmuring sweet nothings all the way. 

Pete couldn’t really imagine kissing Patrick anywhere without paying for it in blood.

He ran into Mikey on his way out of Brooke’s, and Mikey gave him what passed for a grin when one was Mikey Way. “Hallo,” he said pleasantly. “I hear congratulations are in order? It’s amazing, you even had me fooled.”

“Not you as well,” Pete groaned, and Mikey cackled.

“I heard that you defended his honour against a gang of brigands, then swore undying love to his swooning form, there and then.”

“You made that up,” Pete accused.

“Maybe a little,” Mikey admitted, still grinning. “But in my defence, it’s not that far off what’s going around Town. I definitely heard that he swooned. Over a piano? Something like that.”

“There was a piano,” Pete agreed, “but he was just a little nervous. He didn’t damn well faint.”

“Shame,” Mikey said, and took a little snuff. “It adds such colour to the story. Gee was in raptures.”

“Only your brother,” Pete sighed. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but no. Patrick played the piano, he was very good, he was mobbed by society ladies out for their pound of flesh, and I had to rescue him before he breathed in too much cheap rosewater and expired.”

“Snob,” Mikey said easily. “If you’re not careful, you’ll have to marry him. I heard Eliza Lascombe talking to my mama this morning – she has Plans.”

“I suppose I could always move back to India,” Pete said thoughtfully. 

“You wouldn’t leave Patrick alone to fend for himself,” Mikey said shrewdly, then grinned. “You wouldn’t jilt him.”

“Even I’m not enough of a bastard to leave him to the tender mercies of Mrs Lascombe and company.”

“You’re not a bastard at all,” Mikey said, clapping him on the shoulder, and smiling at him, handing his hat and gloves to the nearest footman. “Make sure you don’t get in too deep, Pete. I don’t want you to end up regretting anything.”

“Oh, please. All the best things come with regrets,” Pete said lightly, and he met Mikey’s eyes for a long moment, before turning to accept his own hat and gloves from the butler. “Your servant, Mikey.” He tipped his hat to him, and was gone.

**

When he got back to Brunswick Square, it was all too easy to fall back into the effortless patterns of friendship that he and Patrick had somehow acquired over the last couple of weeks. They spent the afternoon in the drawing room, Patrick painstakingly answering a letter from his sister, while Pete pored over the latest set of accounts from his Indian investments.

When Patrick’s letter was written, he cast a guilty look at Pete’s ledgers, spread out in front of him and taking up most of one of the sofas, and mumbled something guiltily about getting Joe to bring him the Stump accounts. Pete, who suspected that Patrick had spent rather too long looking over the Stump accounts, offered a non-committal reply, and made a mental note to ask Joe to put off fetching those accounts for a few days. It was clearly doing Patrick good to get away from figures and money worries for a little while.

Eventually, Patrick settled down in front of the fire with _Udolpho_ , and before long, Pete heard a thud as his book hit the floor – Patrick was asleep. It had clearly been a while since he’d been required to keep society hours, and coupled with his habit of getting up at an ungodly time of day, it was hardly surprising that he’d drifted off.

Pete regarded him for a moment. He was a quiet sleeper, but by no means an attractive one – his mouth hung open, and one hand hung over the edge of the chair, legs sprawled out in front of him. He looked a lot younger when he was asleep, and the dark shadows under his eyes didn’t help; Pete felt a wave of almost sentimental fondness wash over him. He’d only known Patrick for a few weeks, but there was something so domestic and comforting about the routine they’d somehow fallen into. He wasn’t looking forward to it coming to an end, though academically, he knew it probably wouldn’t last all that long. It was just that an end seemed so far away.

Pete was normally the first to prophesy doom and gloom, but just for once, it was pleasant to live in the moment.

**

When Patrick woke up, he realised with some chagrin that he had once again managed to fall asleep in one of Pete’s chairs. And he’d ruined another book – though, to be fair, Pete’s copy of _Udolpho_ was so well-thumbed, it was practically falling apart.

Glancing at the clock, he bolted up out of his chair, and nearly collided with Greta.

“Mr Stump! I was just coming to wake you.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, feeling like he spent his entire life these days apologising for things. “I seem to have made a habit of falling asleep in chairs and places I shouldn’t.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, friendly. “Lord Highleyton’s getting dressed, but he said I wasn’t to wake you until the last possible moment.”

“Is this the last possible moment?” Patrick asked, harried, and Greta laughed.

“More or less,” she admitted, and he moaned a little, hurrying for the stairs. “I wouldn’t worry,” she called after him. “It’s only the Felsons. They probably won’t mind!”

He scrambled into his evening dress, splashed some water on his face – doing violence to the starch on his collar – and fidgeted impatiently while Joe attempted to tie a decent cravat. Then he took the stairs two at a time and skidded to a halt.

The hallway was empty – Pete wasn’t even down yet.

Patrick slumped against a demi-lune table and waited for Pete to arrive. 

“Oh! You’ve beaten me to it,” Pete said, appearing at the top of the stairs. “I was sure you’d keep me waiting for once. Did you sleep well?”

“I’m so embarrassed,” Patrick muttered, and Pete just laughed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said easily. “If you want to be embarrassed, be embarrassed about your cravat. Did you dress in the dark, Stump? Come here.”

Patrick rolled his eyes, letting Pete drag him forward and untie the crooked, crumpled tie. “Cravats are something that Joe and I have yet to master,” he admitted, and watched in the mirror as Pete’s deft fingers arranged his cravat into something more palatable. 

“Better,” Pete declared, standing back. “Not up to Andy’s standards, perhaps, but then, all of Andy’s cravats are fuelled by his deep hatred for the patrician class, and I disappoint him at every turn. Shall we?”

He held out his arm to Patrick, who allowed himself to be ushered out into the carriage.

Nights like these, it was easy to forget why he was here.

**

Patrick couldn’t have pinpointed the moment when dinner with Bill and Gabe went sour. He had drunk rather too much, he was aware of that, but when he was in his cups, he was normally the happiest man in the world, and his friends indulged him. Dinner with Bill and Gabe was always a rather liquid affair anyway, and not having seen Patrick in two months meant they were eager to welcome him back into their society, which apparently necessitated even more wine than normal.

Bill and Gabe were welcoming hosts, and both of them knew Pete and Patrick well enough to relax completely in their company, which led to an easy, convivial evening, interspersed with in-jokes, and friendly mockery.

Patrick could never afterwards remember how he came to say it. It had been so long since he’d drunk much at all, let alone in any kind of volume, that his head for alcohol seemed to have disappeared completely, and he was dimly aware that he was far drunker than anyone else there, but that still didn’t explain why he’d thought it was a good idea.

Somehow, the conversation led to him leaning across the table to Pete, laughing foolishly, and saying in a conspiratorial tone, “I don’t think tonight’s the night to make good on our agreement. I think I’ve had too much to drink to fulfil my end of the deal – I don’t know if you like your bed-partners drunk.” He giggled a little, then became aware of a slowly-dawning silence. “What?” he asked the room at large. “What have I said?”

“What?” echoed Pete, frowning. He looked a little confused. “Patrick – I don’t understand.”

With absolutely stellar timing, Patrick developed the hiccups.

“Water, I think,” Gabe said, rising from his chair with unfair elegance, and bellowing for a servant.

“You know what I mean,” Patrick told Pete, who frowned still more darkly.

“I really don’t,” he retorted. “What do you mean, ‘do I like my bed-partners drunk’?”

“Brandy, perhaps,” Gabe said loudly. “Bilvy, why don’t you go and find some?”

“What?” Bill asked, watching Pete and Patrick avidly.

“Or maybe some coffee for Patrick,” Gabe said pointedly, and Bill pouted extravagantly.

“Alright,” he said, uncoiling from his chair, and heading to the door. He didn’t so much as sway tipsily, and briefly Patrick hated him. He had a dim notion that he was too drunk for this conversation – the room was swaying gently.

“That was our bargain, wasn’t it?” he said almost plaintively, and Pete shook his head quickly.

“Patrick, _I don’t know what you’re talking about_ ,” he said, almost urgently. Patrick sighed and put his head on the table – he didn’t feel up to explaining things just now. He’d been so _happy_ earlier today. The world went rather quiet, and all he heard was Pete’s chair scraping on the parquet. “Bill, Gabe, I think I should take Patrick home,” Pete said, from a long way above him.

The next thing Patrick knew, he was in his room, and sunlight was streaming through the curtains.

**

Pete had had an entirely different evening. After the heart-stoppingly confusing conversation with Patrick – what had he _meant_? He couldn’t still think… could he? – he’d had to bundle Patrick into the carriage and get him home. Patrick was a compliant drunk, and almost three-quarters unconscious by that point, so Pete had made their excuses for both of them, and spent the drive home in tense, confused silence while Patrick’s head bumped on his shoulder.

Things didn’t get better when he got home. Greta greeted him at the door, stony-eyed, and watched in silence as Pete handed Patrick over to the care of his blank-faced valet.

“Lord Highleyton,” she said, every inch the correct housekeeper, which was worrying in and of itself, “could I have a word with you?”

“I know,” Pete said, following her into the drawing room, “I know, we shouldn’t have drunk so much, but-”

“That’s not what’s bothering me,” Greta retorted. “I had a very interesting conversation with Mr Trohman tonight.”

“I had an interesting time myself,” Pete agreed, heading to the fireplace, and staring moodily at the embers like they might have an answer.

“Really,” Greta said flatly. “I wonder if our evenings were similar. You see, Mr Trohman seems to be under the impression that you are holding Mr Stump here until you decide to sleep with him in payment of a debt.”

Despite the warmth of the dying fire, Pete went cold. “I think I need to sit down,” he said weakly, the alcohol suddenly making itself felt. “He _can’t_ still think that, I-”

“What do you mean, ‘still’ think that? Pete, I know you wouldn’t do something like that, so why does he think that at all?!”

Pete dropped his head into his hands. “I may have – look, alright. He lost to me at cards, alright? And he couldn’t pay the debt, and I thought he was just a wealthy young man who’d come to the end of his allowance for the quarter. He seemed to be a regular at the hell, so I assumed he was an inveterate gambler, and I thought was a shame that someone so young – have you noticed he always looks younger than he is? – should be so inured to gambling hells.” He was speaking very fast, but it was almost a relief to confess it, even if he wasn’t quite making sense. “So when he came to me and said he couldn’t pay, I thought I’d teach him a bit of a lesson.”

“Pete! That’s not a ‘bit of a lesson’, that’s-”

“I wasn’t going to do it!” Pete said angrily. “I didn’t know his circumstances then. It was supposed to give him a little bit of a scare so he wouldn’t do it again. And then he turned up, and – well, you saw him. So I made him a different offer. I thought I’d made it clear that the first one was – defunct. I should have been clearer, but he’s been comfortable here, hasn’t he? Happy, even?” He thought back a couple of nights, and wanted to die or hit something when he remembered Patrick’s white face and his desperation to get out of Pete’s room. “Oh God,” he moaned to himself. “Oh, it’s all such a mess.”

“I’ll say,” Greta agreed, a little more sympathetically. “Why does he still think that?”

“I thought he understood,” Pete said, almost pleadingly. “And it wasn’t as though I could be explicit, was it? ‘No, don’t worry, I won’t require sex in return for wiping out your debt’, I could hardly say that, now could I?”

“Maybe you should have done,” Greta said, but laid a hand on Pete’s shoulder. “Talk to him, please? You’ve been so much happier since he’s been here.”

“Well, that was when I thought he liked it here,” Pete muttered into his hands. “And I didn’t know he was just humouring me so I wouldn’t force him into bed.” He felt dirty just thinking about it. He sighed and stood up. “I’m going to bed. Wake me early, please – I want to be awake for breakfast.”

For the first time in years, Greta bobbed him a curtsey. “Sir,” she said, and he left her there, going up to bed in a black mood.

**

The first inkling Patrick got that something was wrong when he woke the next morning, was at the foot of the stairs when he bumped into Greta.

“Good morning,” he tried to smile, not an easy feat considering his head was pounding and he felt oddly shaky. He hadn’t drunk so much in years, and clearly his body was protesting.

Instead of her usual smile, Greta bobbed him a quick – and very unusual – curtsey, and vanished up the stairs with no more than a curt ‘sir’.

Puzzled, Patrick shook it off and made his way into the dining room, where he was met with the unusual sight of Pete, slumped at the end of the table. Apparently today was a day of firsts, especially when Pete looked up at him, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, frighteningly neutral.

“Um,” Patrick floundered a little. “Yes? Thank you. I mean, I slept. I don’t think I could have done anything else – I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to get so drunk.” Pete’s face didn’t change at all, and Patrick swallowed down nerves. What had he done? The memories of the night before were vague at best. Straining after the easy intimacy of the last few days, he tried, “how did you sleep?”

“I didn’t,” Pete said shortly, and stood up. “Please excuse me, I have business.”

“Oh. Of course,” Patrick nodded, feeling guiltier by the second – whatever he’d done was clearly unforgiveable. Would Pete send him home for this unspoken infraction? To his surprise, he found that wasn’t an entirely joyful prospect. 

Pete paused at the door. “Would you come and see me in my study before lunch?” he said. It wasn’t a question. “We need to talk, but perhaps when you’re a little less green.”

Patrick bowed, which seemed to be the only possible response, and Pete shut the door behind himself with perhaps just a little more force than usual.

A minute or so later, as Patrick was steeling himself to take some food, a crash from upstairs made him jump.

He put off food in favour of tea, and tried to settle the nerves in his stomach about this approaching interview.

**

Upstairs, Pete sullenly picked up the pieces of the vase he’d thrown. 

Greta poked her head around the door. “I thought I heard the sound of you wantonly destroying your property. Do you feel better?”

“No,” he muttered, tipping the shards of porcelain into the waste paper basket and going back for more. 

“Leave it,” she said, awkwardly kind. “It’s the servants’ job.”

“I don’t pay them to clean up my messes,” he told her.

“That’s literally what you pay them for,” she corrected him, and came into the room, letting the door click shut behind her. “And Hayley’s been dying to find out what all the fuss is about, it’ll make her day.”

“Who else knows about this?” Pete asked sharply. “Did Mr Trohman tell my entire staff?”

“No,” she said sternly, “he barely even told me. That was a _joke_ , Pete.”

“This doesn’t put me in a joking mood, Greta,” he retorted, then abandoned the mess of porcelain on the rug and slumped into his desk chair. “How could he think that?”

“I assume you’re talking about Mr Stump, not Joe,” she said, and sat on the bed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

“I thought we were – getting along well,” Pete said plaintively. “When really, he must have been just – keeping me sweet to postpone the inevitable.”

“You don’t know that,” Greta said fairly. “He might have started out thinking that, but-”

“You saw what he looked like the other night,” Pete countered. “I just wanted to lend him a book, and he looked like I was leading him to his own execution.”

“Well, you should hear his side of the story,” Greta said, then added gently, “you have to admit, given why he first came here, it’s not an entirely unreasonable assumption.”

“I intend to,” Pete said grimly. “I don’t care if it’s unreasonable, I want to get to the bottom of this.”

**

Patrick abandoned his attempt at breakfast and escaped back to his own room, relieved when he could shut out the interested eyes of the other servants, always quick to realise when something was afoot. It wasn’t difficult – there was palpable tension in the air.

Joe was folding shirts away when Patrick came in.

“Last night .Did I do something?” Patrick asked, leaning against the door, before coming over to help. “Something awful, I don’t know – insult Pete’s mother or something?”

Joe shrugged. “Not that I know of. Why?”

“Well, everyone’s acting as though there’s a loose cannon in the house. Did I shout unforgiveable slurs at Pete or vomit on the carpet or something? I don’t _remember_.”

Joe took his shirts from him, looking uncomfortable. “Um. I. Don’t get angry.”

“Why would I be angry,” Patrick said slowly.

“Well, yesterday, Greta and I were talking about how we – you and I, I mean – came to be here, and how long we’d be staying, and I said that would really depend, because you had no idea when Lord Highleyton was going to-”

“Oh, you didn’t,” Patrick said, aghast, pressing his face into his hands, and sitting heavily onto the bed. “No wonder Greta’s furious with me. And _Pete_ \- no one was supposed to know. Telling _you_ was bad enough.”

Joe looked doleful. “I know, I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly, patting Patrick’s shoulder. “Maybe it’ll be alright?”

“Maybe it won’t,” Patrick told his hands. “Maybe Lord Highleyton will tell _everybody_ , and then Megan will be ruined before she’s even left school. I don’t think many eligible young men want a gambling whore for a brother-in-law.”

“But it’d look pretty bad for Lord Highleyton as well,” Joe pointed out.

“Not nearly as bad as it’ll look for me,” Patrick retorted. “Christ, and it’s hours till lunch.”

“What?!”

“He wants to see me in his study before lunch. It’s like being back at school, waiting for a beating.”

“Well, I don’t think he’s going to thrash you,” Joe said bracingly. “And he could have asked to see you in his bedroom, so there’s some hope.”

“Hm,” said Patrick.

“And hey, worst comes to worst, what can he do? He’ll send you home, and you’ll never have to have anything to do with him again. And that’s a _good_ thing.”

Patrick tried to remind himself that it was.

**

He never afterwards knew how he passed the hours between nine and twelve. He did a lot of fidgeting and a lot of rote tasks he’d been putting off – organising his clothes (remembering which ones he’d brought with him and which he’d had from Pete), dragging out his valise from under the bed (he would probably need to pack in a hurry), before finally changing into the better of the clothes he’d brought with him.

However this confrontation went, he didn’t want to have it wearing gifts from Pete.

As the clock chimed quarter to, he made his slow and very reluctant way downstairs, tapping on the door of Pete’s study and waiting till he was invited in to open the door.

“You’ve changed,” Pete said tonelessly. Patrick nodded; he didn’t feel up to explaining why. “Sit down. Please.”

“I’d prefer to stand,” Patrick said, feeling all the awkwardness that Pete apparently didn’t. 

Pete shrugged. “As you like.”

For a long moment, they stood in silence, then Patrick couldn’t bear it anymore. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “I didn’t know Joe said anything to Greta, I know you didn’t want the servants to know-”

“Naturally,” Pete said, ice-cold. “Naturally, the servants knowing is my paramount concern. I couldn’t bear to think that my servants would believe me capable of something so base, whereas naturally I expect it in my friends. I would be _heartbroken_ if my servants thought that I had press-ganged one of my friends into prostitution to make up a _gambling debt_ , though of course, that is _just_ the sort of behaviour my friends have _come to expect from me_!” He was shouting by the end, and Patrick took a couple of nervous steps back before he could stop himself. He didn’t know whether he was angry or confused.

“I don’t understand,” he said honestly. “That’s why I’m _here_. That was what we agreed.”

“You don’t remember last night, do you,” Pete said without inflection.

“No,” Patrick admitted flatly, on-edge. “Why?”

“You referred to an agreement – an agreement _I_ thought we’d terminated, by the way – in front of Bill and Gabe. Who are,” he turned to his desk, blatantly pretending to look through his papers, “probably at this very moment rallying a lynch-mob to save your honour from me.”

Patrick stared at his back, stricken. “Oh God,” he said. “I’m so sorry – of course you didn’t want your friends to know-”

“ _You’re_ my friend! At least, I thought you were,” and he sounded so self-pitying that Patrick lost his shaky grip on his temper.

“No, we’re not,” he snapped. “We’re not friends. You’ve been nothing but kind since the first time I came to see you, I admit, but I wouldn’t _be here_ if it weren’t for a gambling debt you offered to waive in return for – well. For that.”

“For sex,” Pete said flatly. “You can’t say it, but you were going to do it.”

“Yes,” Patrick admitted, angry. “Yes, I would have done, because you didn’t give me any other choice.”

“It was your idea!”

“You agreed to it!”

They glared at each other across the room, and Pete’s hands curled into fists. “I was never going to do it,” he said tightly, and Patrick laughed unkindly. “And I made you a different offer _the next night_ , have you forgotten that?”

“Oh, yes, a secretary in public and a whore in private-”

“That is _not_ what I said!” Pete shouted. “I would _never_ -”

“But you did!” Patrick cried. “You said no one need know what went on behind closed doors!”

“I meant they needn’t know that you were paying off a gambling debt! Not that I was fucking you on every available surface!”

“Well next time, maybe you should be more clear,” Patrick snarled.

“Oh, there won’t be a next time,” Pete said sharply. “Even I can learn from my mistakes.”

It wasn’t an apology, but it was unexpected, and Patrick couldn’t think up a rejoinder. Instead, he glared at Pete, and offered a slightly feeble, “I should hope not.”

Pete abruptly deflated. “I can’t believe you thought that of me.”

“Be fair,” Patrick retorted, not quite as quick to let go of his anger. “That was the impression I was given.”

Pete sighed. “Yes. Yes, it was. I just – have you spent the last three weeks wandering around this house, expecting me to force you to have sex with me?”

“Yes,” Patrick said, then paused at Pete’s stricken look. “No. Only when I remembered.” He shut his eyes for a second, feeling all the shame and unease of the last three weeks. “You made it really easy to forget,” he admitted. “Look, I’d like us to be friends – I mean, if you still want to be friends. I – I like you. I’d like – I wish things were easier between us.”

“Well, hopefully they will be now,” Pete offered weakly. “Now that you don’t think – that.”

“I’m sure.” Things were suddenly very awkward, and Patrick backed towards the door. “I’m going to go and – finish packing.”

Pete’s head jerked up. “What do you mean, finish packing?” he asked swiftly.

“Well, I assumed… after this…” Patrick waved a hand, awkward. “I rather thought you’d want me to – go home.”

“No! No,” Pete said, looking suddenly very determined. “You can’t leave now!” He paused, cleared his throat and visibly pulled the mask of humour back on. “You can’t abandon me just as the Season starts, I’d be lost in a sea of flattery, balls and rout-parties. They’d never find my body.”

Patrick hesitated. “If you’re sure…?”

“Very sure. In fact, Mr Carden has tried out that mare, so we could go for a ride this afternoon if you wanted.”

Patrick saw it as the peace offering it was and smiled. “I’d like that,” he agreed.

“And you’re not leaving?”

“No. I’ll tell Joe to unpack.”

“Ah, yes, Mr Trohman. Could you – I mean, would it be – I’d like to talk to him, if you don’t mind. And if you think he won’t hit me. He’s a lot bigger than me.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Patrick assured him. “He’s far more worried about Greta. He’s sure she’s going to scalp him for thinking badly of you.”

Pete pulled a face. “Poor Mr Trohman. You don’t want to get on Greta’s bad side.”

“I think I’m about to find that out for myself,” Patrick said ruefully. “I’m certainly not her favourite person right now.”

“Lies, Patrick Stump,” Pete said, with one of his sudden grins, the ones that had made it so easy for Patrick to forget their initial agreement. “You’re everyone’s favourite person. I take one look at your face, and I can’t be angry with you, there’s no way she’ll be able to keep it up for long.”

**

Pete dropped the smile as Patrick left, and slumped back into his chair. Damnation. He felt drained and disappointed and just a little bit dirty – like he’d actually gone through with it. It was one thing to suspect what Patrick had been thinking; it was quite another to have it confirmed. And although he’d brought up going for a ride, all he really wanted to do was sit in his study and not think for a while – given the choice, he wouldn’t have gone outside. He didn’t really want to see people, or let anyone see him. 

After about fifteen minutes of brooding, he sighed and got to his feet again, bellowing for Hayley, who appeared far too quickly, as though she might have been lurking nearby.

Pete winced – his conversation with Patrick had not been quiet. He was very sure that all his staff knew the current situation by now, and that was another mistake to obsess over. 

Nevertheless, he smiled as Hayley bobbed a perfunctory curtsey. “Could you bring me some tea and toast?” he asked politely, then added as an afterthought, “and perhaps send some up to Mr Stump’s room as well?” He was very sure Patrick hadn’t eaten breakfast, and he didn’t want him to faint and fall off the damn horse.

She curtseyed again automatically and disappeared, no doubt to bring the rest of the servants up to date with the latest report on their employer’s scurrilous life while the toast was made.

He sat himself at his desk again, and waited for tea, toast and Mr Trohman.

He was rather disappointed that Mr Trohman arrived first.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” he said, without looking at Pete.

“Oh! Yes. Come in. Sorry.” He eyed Mr Trohman’s unforgiving face. “Have you had a chance to talk to Mr Stump?”

“Yes,” Mr Trohman said shortly, truculence written large across his face. “Sir.”

“Oh,” Pete said weakly. “Good. So. We – you understand? That I’m not going to – that I was never going to-” He was usually far more eloquent than this, but something about Mr Trohman’s silence put him off.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I understand. Sir.”

“Alright. Well. I just want you to know-” What did he want him to know? That Patrick was safe with him? Mr Trohman wasn’t going to believe that. That Pete had only the best intentions? Ditto, “that this misunderstanding has been cleared up.”

“Misunderstanding. Of course. Yes.” 

“And Mr Stump’s going to be here for a little while longer.”

“Yes. Sir.”

Pete was squirming a little, but he had enough pride to add, pointedly, “you don’t have to stay too, if you’d rather not.”

“And leave him without a valet, sir?” Mr Trohman asked, looking at him for the first time, and clearly wishing he could say ‘and leave him with you?’

“Look,” Pete said, deciding not to dance around the subject anymore. “You know it was a misunderstanding, for which I am sorry. And you know that I’m not kicking him out to go back to the just-about-genteel poverty he was living in before. So what is it you’re angry with me about?”

“Two things,” Mr Trohman said, still meeting his eyes. “It wasn’t a misunderstanding to begin with, and secondly, have you actually apologised to him?” Pete floundered at this unexpected attack. “It’s not that I don’t think you’re not owed an apology too,” Joe persisted, “but I’m pretty sure you owe him one as well.”

“Good point,” Pete murmured. Joe nodded, stiffly.

“Is that all, sir?” he asked.

“We’re going to be sharing this house. We should try and get on.”

“I’ll be perfectly polite-”

“I don’t want perfectly polite!” Pete said, and then restrained himself. “Look, you know how this house is run. I don’t want to feel hemmed in by my servants, and I don’t want them feeling oppressed by me. Do you think we can manage that?”

“I think you’ll be lucky to get politeness from me,” Mr Trohman said frankly, and Pete laughed.

“From what Patrick’s said, he doesn’t,” and was that the glimmer of a smile? Pete was sure it was.

“Of course he doesn’t, I’ve known him since we were three.” The early gleam of camaraderie died as Mr Trohman skewered Pete with a glare. “So I’m not wild about the way you’ve behaved.”

“I know,” Pete agreed ruefully.

“Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not pleased with him either. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve both acted like idiots. But the power was all on your side, and I’m finding that difficult to forgive.”

“Well, maybe one day,” Pete said, letting go of any hopes for a touching moment of understanding just now.

“Perhaps. Patrick said you’re going riding?”

“After lunch, yes.”

“I’ll lay out his things. Goodbye, sir.” Mr Trohman bowed.

“Thank you for not punching me!” Pete called after him. Another smile twitched at the corners of Joe’s mouth as he left.


	2. Chapter 2

Patrick made sure not to be in the hallway before their horses were brought round. He didn’t want to avoid Pete, per se, but he also didn’t want to have to spend too much time with him. When they were both on the same page – or when he’d _thought_ they were both on the same page – things had been easy. But friendship, real honest friendship, complicated things, especially after so serious a misunderstanding, and he had no real idea how to get back to the easy intimacy they’d had just the day before. He didn’t even know how they’d got there in the first place, or how he should act now they’d lost it.

Pete seemed equally unsettled, mounting up in silence and leading the way down the street. Patrick felt a little ridiculous beside him – Pete was on one of his hunters, and on the admittedly docile, but very much smaller mare, Patrick felt like a munchkin. 

Finally, he called up to Pete, “she’s lovely!” And to his own surprise, he meant it. This was the longest he’d been on a horse without wanting to get off again.

“Hmm?” Pete said absently. “Oh. Oh, good, I’m glad.”

Patrick remembered abruptly that the mare had been a gift from a friend to a friend, which was no longer strictly true. He lapsed into silence.

True to his word, Pete didn’t try to gallop when they reached the Park, though he did take off for a canter – Lucky Sixpence responded with a twitch of one ear and a firmly-maintained walk. Patrick was rather glad to have the chance to be by himself, out of Pete’s house, even if it was only for a little while. He saw Pete rein in ahead of him, and turn his giant mount to wait for Patrick and Lucky Sixpence (who really would need a less cumbersome name, if Patrick was really going to continue to stay with Pete).

When they caught up, Pete smiled at him, a little tentative now. “D’you want to go home, or do you want to risk a canter?”

Patrick steeled himself, and smiled back. Pete looked a little better for being outside the house, and Patrick really didn’t want to return just yet. “I think we can risk a canter,” he said, glancing round at the near-empty stretch of track. “Even I couldn’t hit someone today.”

“We’ll trot first, get you used to her at speed,” Pete offered.

“Let’s see if I can persuade her to trot at all,” Patrick said, patting Lucky Sixpence absently. 

It took some doing – Lucky Sixpence was definitely a lady and was blatantly reluctant to abandon her decorous pace – but eventually he goaded her into a trot. 

“Not bad!” Pete said, sailing past them, his hunter’s stride at least twice the length of Lucky Sixpence’s. “Why don’t we veer onto the grass for the canter? Softer landing!”

“Don’t tempt fate,” Patrick called after him, and glanced down at the horse. “You’re going to hate this,” he told her. “Possibly as much as me. Come on, then.”

They rode into the interior of the Park, and when Pete found an empty stretch of grass, he dug his heels into Jack, and was off. Patrick gritted his teeth and nudged at Lucky Sixpence.

She did nothing.

“Come on,” he said cajolingly. “You can do this. We can both do this. You don’t want him to win, do you?”

Lucky Sixpence didn’t seem to care all that much.

He couldn’t help it: he giggled.

Pete had wheeled back towards them, and was coming back their way – by the time he got back to them, Patrick had reined in completely and was hunched over the horse’s neck, laughing helplessly.

“I’m sorry,” he got out around the giggles, “I don’t even know why I’m laughing. I’d say we decided to sit this race out, but I didn’t have much input.”

Pete, who had looked concerned when he pulled up beside them, started to smile. “You’ve got to show her who’s boss!” he said encouragingly.

“Oh, I never argue with a lady,” Patrick said complacently, then sniggered again. “I’m sorry.” It was as though all the nerves and worry of the last three weeks were working their way out of his system – he felt a little hysterical. Judging by the look on Pete’s face, he thought so too.

“Are you alright?” he asked awkwardly, and Patrick nodded.

“Perfectly fine,” he reassured him. “This is the first time I’ve enjoyed riding in years.” Pete looked so gratified, Patrick was relieved he’d said it. He’d worried that he wouldn’t be able to say anything right to Pete ever again, but he’d forgotten, in the awkwardness of this morning, that for most of the last three weeks, they’d been working towards being friends. Those three weeks had, at times, been awful, but Pete was willing to give it another shot, and Patrick was – he found – grateful for the chance.

**

Patrick laughing was surprisingly endearing, and Pete softened enough to blurt out, “I think I owe you an apology.”

He regretted it when Patrick’s smile faded, and he looked guarded again, nudging Lucky Sixpence into a gentle walk. “If it comes to that,” Patrick said, surprising him once again, “I think I owe you one too.”

“But I owe you more of an apology,” Pete persisted, keeping Jack on a tight rein so he and Patrick could ride side-by-side.

“I didn’t know it was a competition,” Patrick said wryly. “‘My apology’s bigger than your apology.’”

“Is that a euphemism?” Pete said without thinking, and Patrick snorted, taken by surprise.

“No,” he said firmly, but the glance he threw Pete was pure amusement.

“Good, because, well. I meant it. I am very sorry that I let you think that for so long, and that you’ve spent three weeks being miserable because of my actions. I never want you to be miserable.”

“And there’s our common cause,” Patrick said complacently. “I don’t want to be miserable either. And rest assured that, after this morning, if being around you made me miserable, I would have gone home. But it doesn’t – I like you, and I would like to friends. If that’s alright with you.”

“That’s alright,” Pete said, very fast. A weighty silence grew between them. More to break it than anything else, Pete pointed at an oak in the middle distance. “Race you to that tree!”

“She won’t race!” Patrick said plaintively. “She _might_ jog!”

“I know!” Pete said gleefully, and set off.

**

Things were a little easier when they got back to the house, Patrick found. The edge had been taken off their self-consciousness, and all that was left were the beginnings of a good friendship and the residue of awkwardness that the whole horrible misunderstanding had brought about.

“I should probably write to the Felsons,” Pete said, handing his whip and hat to a footman. “Just so they know we haven’t killed each other, and you haven’t been ravished.”

Patrick sighed. “I should probably apologise. I behaved disgracefully.”

Pete gave him a sidelong look. “You do know Gabe and Bill, right? That’s not the most embarrassing thing they’ve ever seen. It’s not even the most embarrassing thing they’ve ever done. Ask Bill about the fountain in Vienna, sometime when you’ve half an hour to spare.”

“What happened in the fountain in Vienna?”

“I can’t do the story justice,” Pete said regretfully, taking Patrick’s accoutrements and handing them over to the footman as well, “but Bill tells it with relish. Gabe made an _idiot_ of himself.”

The camaraderie was a little hesitant, but no less genuine for it, and Patrick grinned. “Something to look forward to,” he said, and Pete smiled.

The butler cleared his throat, and Pete grinned at him. “Sorry, Andy. What is it?”

“Sir has a letter,” the butler said, formal.

“Which sir?” Pete asked idly.

“Well, you’ve got about eight,” the butler said, handing over a sheaf of paper, “but Mr Stump has one.”

“Oh!” Patrick took it, surprised. “Oh, it’s from Megan. Thank you! I’ve been meaning to write to her for at least a week.”

“Give it to me to frank when you’re done,” Pete said easily. “I should change and look through these. I’ll bellow for you if any of them are invitations – you can remind me who I like and who I don’t.”

“Whatever you like,” Patrick said, mind already half on the letter, and went upstairs to wash and change as quickly as possible.

**

He took the letter down to the drawing room when he was done, because he knew it would be empty at this time of day, and Joe was a silent but disapproving figure in the landscape of Patrick’s room. Anything was preferable to having that glowering presence behind him while he tried to read.

 _Dear Patrick_ , the letter read.

_It was very kind of you to write to me. Thank you for your letter. I hope you are well. We are very well here, and I am enjoying school._

_Miss Cardew told me to write that – she takes our correspondence skills very seriously. And I should probably call her Madame Beauparlant, because that’s what she tells all the parents that she’s called. I’m pretty sure she treasures dreams of setting up a girls’ Eton, probably in the Alps where there are no young men and everyone’s already Catholic. I have been to Mass six times this week and it is only Thursday. Would you please remind her she is running a convent_ school _and not a convent?_ Patrick laughed, and leant back into the sofa.

 _So who is Lord Highleyton?_ Patrick rolled his eyes; trust Megan to focus on the salient point. _I mentioned his name to some of the girls here, and most of them seem to know of him. One says she’s a third cousin of his twice removed, but since their branch of the family was cut off when her Protestant papa married her Catholic mama, I don’t think he’d acknowledge the relationship, even if it was much nearer. Another says he’s a wanted felon, but she doesn’t always tell the truth. Though if he_ is _a criminal, please be careful. I don’t have any spare brothers anymore._ He winced a little; she was clearly trying to keep it light, but at eight years old, Kevin’s death had hit her hard.

 _On the other hand_ , she continued, her pen starting to sputter – Patrick could see her hunched over the letter, frowning and writing very fast, _if you’re going to get married, I don’t care if he is a criminal, because the one thing everyone can agree on is that he’s very wealthy. And apparently very good-looking._

“Megan!” he said, out loud, half-amused and half-scandalised. 

_You’re probably looking horrified_ , she’d written, gauging his expression to a nicety, _and I’m sorry, but it is true. You said he’s nice, though? And I want you to have nice things. I hope you’re still happy there. Will you be at home over Easter? Georgiana Hyde has invited me to stay with her – she lives in Buckinghamshire. Should I say yes, or will it be convenient for me to stay with you over the holidays?_ Patrick winced. Firstly, he’d love to have his sister home, but he genuinely wasn’t sure he’d be able to afford it, and the knowledge that she was aware of that stung. Secondly, he honestly wasn’t sure he would be at home. Since their conversation, his status in Pete’s home was uncertain. Pete had talked a good game about friendship and Patrick being a guest, but the fact was they had taken several large steps backwards in their relationship, and they had never really been further from friends than at this moment. 

_Nothing much is going on at school – I have spent six months embroidering a sampler from the_ Song of Songs _, but I should tell you now that it’s hideous and you shouldn’t have it in the house. I will resist Sister Anne’s exhortations to turn it into a cushion – I’m sure you would display it prominently out of sheer brotherly malice, and I don’t think I could recover from the shame. We are only allowed to practise piano for an hour a day, which I know will appal you, but it will shortly be my turn for the piano, so I will sign off here with all my love, begging to be remembered as,_

_Your affectionate sister,_

_Megan_

_PS - keep yourself safe and write soon._

Patrick carefully folded up the letter, and sat for a long moment in silence before moving over to the writing table. He wanted to write back immediately; he wanted never to have to write back at all. He slipped the letter into one of the pigeon-holes in the desk and went back upstairs to see whether his room had become a friendlier place since he’d left; unfortunately, Joe was still there and in no mood to forgive Patrick for what he personally termed as complete a piece of idiocy as he’d ever seen. Patrick stayed just long enough to grab Pete’s copy of _The Monk_ from his bedside and then fled back to the drawing room, mercifully empty. 

After an hour or so of reading about long, dark corridors and girls in white nightdresses, his attention started to wander, as it often did, back to his usual worries. Megan’s letter had reminded him that her school fees would soon be due and he had no idea where he was going to get the money to pay. None of his regular hells were an option any more – even if he hadn’t lost to Pete, he’d long since lost his taste for gambling; if it hadn’t been his most lucrative source of income, he’d have abandoned it altogether without a second thought. Music lessons were always possible, but he’d have to work up the money for an advert first. His own pockets were stretched to groaning _and_ he had to write to Mrs Somerby to see how much money the house needed for the quarter. With a sigh, Patrick resigned himself to writing pamphlets again. After all, he’d attended a number of concerts lately, and he could write a decent review. It wouldn’t bring in much money, but if he could find a publisher, at least that would gain him a few pounds. 

He went over to the desk, casting a guilty look at Megan’s letter, and started to write. 

_The performance of Mr Clementi’s most recent work on the 6th March was held at…_

**  
Pete was unashamed to admit that he was hiding. He’d told Greta he would be working on his business letters all afternoon, and had done nothing of the sort. Instead, he’d paced circles into the carpet in his study, trying to find the best way to deal with his current predicament. Any easiness he’d felt with Patrick during their ride had vanished when alone and allowed to brood over the situation. For the first time since he’d met Patrick, returning to India was looking genuinely appealing. Then again, he reflected wryly, if he continued to run away from his problems, he’d eventually run out of empire. Then again, there was the New World. Perhaps the Americans would be interested in a feckless aristocrat with more money than sense who’d seen the error of his ways.

Perhaps he could send Patrick there.

The fact was, Pete felt awkward in his own house and he hated it. He had no idea what he could do to make things any easier. One thing was certain: he couldn’t send Patrick home. Firstly, he didn’t want to. He _liked_ Patrick, and the thought sounded plaintive, even in his own head. Secondly, the unsentimental part of him pointed out that sending Patrick away now would be easily be misconstrued – most of all by Patrick. For better or worse, they were stuck with each other, at least for the time being. It was not a joyous prospect. Pete felt as though he’d been cast as the villain in a small-time fairytale.

“Sir?” Alex poked his head round the door. “Supper’s just about on the table. You need to go and change – Andy’s waiting for you.”

Pete smiled, nodded and went upstairs. God. Dinner. This was going to be hell. 

**  
Later on, Patrick would wonder why dinner had been so awkward. It had seemed to him that he and Pete had been working back towards something approaching friendship, but something about Pete’s face when he sat down at the table made it clear that things were not so easily resolved.

Patrick joined him, already feeling ill at ease. Something about the room, with its dark panelling, suddenly seemed ominous in a way it never had before, even during his first night there. As he sat down, the silence grew and billowed between them.

“Did you have a good afternoon?” Pete asked politely.

“Yes, thank you. Very good. Did you?” Patrick replied, just as politely.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Silence descended again, excruciating in its intensity.

“Would you like-“ Patrick tried.

“What would I like?” Pete asked when Patrick trailed off.

Patrick gave up. “The wine.”

“Oh. No. But feel free to help yourself.”

Patrick felt that some joke should be made about his overindulgence the night before, but clearly neither of them thought it was a joking matter. He certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. 

Pete picked at his stew. “So, tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’ll be out all day. Will you be all right here by yourself?”

“Oh yes. Perfectly,” Patrick said lightly, even though his heart sank. He’d known that his and Pete’s friendship had suffered a blow, but he hadn’t thought they’d been set back this far. The prospect of hiding in his room and ducking round corners to avoid Pete was certainly not a happy one.

At least he’d get some more pamphlets written. 

Or perhaps, he thought, since Pete would be out, he could try the piano again. Maybe even write something, this time. He hadn’t had the opportunity to write regularly in such a long time, and even with things as they were between him and Pete, he wasn’t going to waste any time he might have with a piano.

Meanwhile, the silence had grown to such proportions that Patrick reflected they might as well have laid a place for it at the table. Pete didn’t seem inclined to break it, though, and Patrick felt too awkward to force conversation on him when he clearly wasn’t in a talking mood. The servants cleared away their plates and brought in the port, to his surprise; he couldn’t remember what he’d eaten, or even if he’d eaten at all.

Perhaps he hadn’t, given the way Pete was staring at his plate and scowling.

“If you want anything else to eat, please just tell someone,” he said abruptly.

Almost against his will, Patrick felt his eyebrows raise. “No. Thank you. I’ve had plenty.”

“Oh, good.”

Patrick took a self-conscious sip of port, pulling a face – sweet wines had never been to his taste. Pete, who had chosen today to be sharp-eyed, noticed.

“Is there something wrong with the port?”

Patrick arranged his expression into something approaching polite attentiveness. “No,” he said shortly. “There’s something wrong with me. I don’t like port.”

“Oh,” Pete avoided his eyes. “Well. You know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to in this house, right?”

At any other time, it would have been a kindly reminder, but with that atmosphere and all that had happened, it just felt pointed. Patrick sighed. “Please don’t do this,” he said, trying for humour he didn’t feel. He’d hoped it would break the ice and bring them back to something approaching normal interaction, but Pete apparently chose to take it amiss.

“Don’t do what?” he said flatly and Patrick scowled, all attempts at levity at an end.

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Pete nodded once, sharply. “Alright.”

Patrick hesitated for a second and then stood up. “I think I’ll withdraw.”

Pete rose with a shrug. “Someone will bring the tea-tray through shortly.”

**  
Pete was around ninety percent sure he was in hell. He’d never have admitted it, but he’d almost rather have been at one of Mrs Lascombe’s interminable cattle-markets, shunted round the floor with the latest tongue-tied miss just out of the schoolroom. 

Patrick had retired to a chair in the corner of the drawing room and was ostensibly reading, though he hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes and Pete wasn’t sure his eyes were moving. Perhaps he was looking a bit too closely. Maybe this was why his friends thought he was odd. 

He didn’t know whose fault it was that this evening had been so awkward, but he knew by now that he never wanted to live through another evening like this. He’d never known that the clock on the mantelpiece could be so loud, or the seconds pass so slowly. It was barely nine o’clock, which was nonsense, because Pete knew they’d been in there for at least two days. 

It was a shameful relief when, after about three years of interminable silence, Patrick closed his book with a snap and stood. “Well, I think I’ll head to bed,” he said awkwardly, and Pete stood instantly. He wasn’t quite sure why – he’d never made much of a habit of standing to see Patrick out of the room. But given the sudden and strange tension between them, formality seemed the best option. 

“Excellent,” he said, just fractionally too hearty. “I’ll – see you at breakfast. Sleep well.”

“Don’t get up on my account,” Patrick said, just as quickly. “I know you like to sleep late.”

Pete felt almost offended, but brushed it off with as good grace as he could manage. “No, no – I’d like to. I won’t see you otherwise.” The look Patrick gave him implied that he didn’t much mind.

“Of course.” Patrick hovered awkwardly by the door. “Well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Pete echoed to the empty room.

Something would have to be done, he thought, reseating himself and staring into the fire. At this point, he didn’t _care_ why they were like this – he just wanted to make sure he never had to live through another evening like this again.

**

Patrick made his escape with no little relief, scurrying back up to his room and flinging open the door. Joe, who’d been lying on Patrick’s bed, reading, sat up, surprised.

“What are you doing up here?” he asked. “I didn’t expect you back upstairs for another hour at least.”

“We’re at something of an impasse,” Patrick admitted, flopping down on the bed where Joe had just been lying. 

“Does this mean we’re going home?” Joe asked hopefully.

“Are you still in Greta’s bad books?” Patrick asked shrewdly. He knew Joe.

“She hasn’t talked to me since yesterday, and when she talks about me, she calls me Mr Stump’s valet,” Joe said miserably. “I don’t think she’s ever going to forgive me. Which is rich, because it’s your fault.”

“I wasn’t the one who told her,” Patrick pointed out. “I would have been perfectly happy if she’d lived in blissful ignorance.” He paused, thinking. “Actually, I think I’d have been perfectly happy if _I’d_ been living in blissful ignorance.”

“Oh yes,” Joe agreed, “thinking that you were going to have to drop to your knees at a moment’s notice.”

“Joe!”

“What? It’s what you thought.”

“Yes. Well,” Patrick toed off his shoes and put them in line with the other, rattier pair he’d brought with him to Brunswick Square.

“And you’re sure that’s not what he wants now?” 

Patrick sighed. “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t,” he said.

“Hmm,” Joe sounded sceptical.

“No, really. He wouldn’t even look at me.”

“Oh, right. Because he couldn’t just be angry that you’ve rumbled his game, in front of his servants.”

“I really don’t think – look, you’ve got to stop second guessing him. He’s a good man, Joe.” 

“I’m sure he is.” Joe did not sound sure. “Come on, Patrick. A good man would never have let you think that at all. Have you even found out _why_ he accepted that offer?” He paused for a second, then glared at Patrick. “Actually, remind me why you even _made_ that offer? You _idiot_?”

“I told you,” Patrick said wearily, with the sensation of going over much-trodden and very boring ground, “I’m kind of the last thing we have of value to barter away. And I use the word ‘value’ lightly – you can be sure one of our Tudor tables fetched a lot more than I will.”

Joe didn’t look happy, but nor did he look especially sympathetic. “Oh, don’t be so self-pitying,” he said bracingly. “We’re not in dire straits yet.” Patrick reminded himself that Joe hadn’t seen their accounts, and forced himself to smile weakly. “And your flights of insanity aside, that still doesn’t explain why he accepted it. And while we’re on the subject,” he added, when Patrick went to reply, “if you’re the last thing of value we’ve got, maybe you should have thought twice about bartering yourself away on _this_. I mean, it’s a gambling debt, and for what, a hundred pounds? That’s just _stupid_.”

“It’s a debt of honour,” Patrick said stubbornly.

“Patrick, I love you, but you’re stupid,” Joe said firmly. “And I don’t trust my lord Highleyton any further than I could throw him – though I could probably throw him a decent wa-”

“Don’t,” Patrick said quickly. “Don’t throw him _anywhere_.”

“As long as he keeps his hands to himself, he’s perfectly safe with me.”

“You know I don’t actually need a knight-errant, right? And if I did, you wouldn’t be my first choice.”

“Oh please, I’d be your only choice,” Joe said comfortably. “Just – bear it in mind, would you? We don’t know why Highleyton accepted your offer, so – I don’t know. Be on your guard.”

Patrick sighed, and nodded, more to appease Joe than anything else. He didn’t think he was in any danger from Pete – he wasn’t entirely sure he and Pete would ever manage to have so much as a conversation again, let alone voluntarily spend enough time together to give Pete the opportunity to try and ravish him.

Anyway, Joe hadn’t been there this evening. No one who could be as boundlessly awkward as Pete had been tonight could really cherish any designs on anyone’s virtue.

**

“You haven’t forgotten the Blackinton-Asher party, have you?” Patrick asked politely over breakfast. He’d come down utterly determined not to let breakfast be a repeat of last night’s dreadful dinner, and so was grinning madly every time Pete so much as glanced up from his slump over his coffee cup.

He probably looked deranged. Between the caffeine and the nervous tension, he was all-but vibrating in his seat.

Pete looked momentarily confused, then scowled. “Another engagement party? Is there something in the water this year?”

“Perhaps they’re in love,” Patrick suggested. Pete snorted.

“Perhaps her father’s estates are grossly encumbered, and he’s one of the wealthiest merchants in London. After me,” he added, as an afterthought.

“Is that true?” Patrick asked, interested. It wasn’t as though love-matches like Bill and Gabe’s were common, but then, it wasn’t like it was common for eldest sons to marry each other, so.

“No idea,” Pete shrugged, returning to his coffee. “Probably. I hope so – or I’m going to be asphyxiated by happy people being in love all over the place.”

“Yes, it would be infinitely preferable if they loathed each other and were getting leg-shackled for economic convenience,” Patrick agreed with false sweetness. “We’d all really have something to celebrate then.”

“From what I know of Miss Asher, the leg-shackles would probably be a bonus,” Pete said, and Patrick nearly snorted tea out his nose. Pete looked momentarily surprised, then smiled a little. Patrick took full advantage of it, and beamed back. Pete gave him a look that clearly questioned his sanity, and returned once again to his coffee.

Patrick took a recovering sip of his own. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” he pointed out. “You are, after all, Lord Highleyton.”

“And what joy it’s brought me,” Pete muttered. “No, we’ll go. I don’t want Miss Asher coming after me.”

“Then I’ll see you back by seven. Unless you want to dine first-”

“No – no, I’ll eat while I’m out,” Pete said, with what Patrick felt was undue haste. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who’d been dreading a repeat of last night. “Will you have enough to do?”

“Oh yes,” Patrick lied cheerfully. “There’s all your correspondence to go through, and I’ve got to reply to my sister – I’ve got plenty to keep me occupied.”

Pete looked a little doubtful, and oddly torn. “Well,” he said slowly, after a long pause, “feel free to have Lucky Sixpence saddled if you want.”

“Thank you,” Patrick said politely, inwardly renewing his vow never to take a horse out by himself. Lucky Sixpence _seemed_ docile around Pete, but if Patrick was foolhardy enough to take her out alone, she’d probably reveal a wild streak, make a bid for freedom and Patrick would never be heard of again. Belatedly, he realised that Pete had said something. “I’m sorry?” 

“Bill and Gabe will be here tonight,” Pete repeated patiently. “So there’ll be people you know there.”

“Hm,” Patrick agreed noncommittally. He couldn’t even muster up a little enthusiasm, remembering how his last social event with Bill and Gabe had ended – he still hadn’t written to apologise or, indeed, explain.

Somehow he didn’t think an engagement party was the place for this.

“And I’m sure it will be fun,” Pete continued, apparently without registering Patrick’s apathetic reaction.

“Indeed,” Patrick agreed weakly.

“So, I’ll see you here at seven,” Pete went on, and then paused for thought. “You’d probably better leave me some time to change. I don’t intend to be on time, but I will be impeccably dressed.” There was an ironical twist to his voice, and Patrick smiled a little. Clearly encouraged by this, Pete pressed on. “The Blackintons don’t live far from here. Can you be ready by eight? Even if the roads are nigh impassable, we should arrive by eight thirty at the latest.”

Since Patrick would have nothing to do all day but get ready in time for eight o’clock, he didn’t think it would be a stretch, and nodded. “Isn’t that pushing it a bit, though?” he asked dubiously.

“I’m Pete Wentz,” Pete explained, waving a negligent hand. “I’m rude and unmannerly. I only just arrived from the colonies, you know.”

“You know once you’ve been here for a year, you’re going to have to stop using that excuse, right?” Patrick asked, and Pete grinned, just a little wryly.

“Ah, but by then the impression will be firmly cemented in everyone’s mind. An impression of barely-tamed colonial gaucheness.”

“Yes,” Patrick agreed without inflection, eyeing Pete hunched protectively over the coffee-pot. “Barely tamed colonial gaucheness.”

“Just you wait,” Pete said cheerfully. “I’ll have the ladies queuing to glimpse my manly wildness.”

Patrick levelled him with a glance. “I’m sure your manly wildness is a sight to behold, but I rejoice to say I’ve never seen it.” Pete’s mouth, Patrick noted with malicious glee, had been half-full of coffee when he started to choke with laughter, hacking up coffee from his lungs. The footmen were starting to look worried.

“Insolent swine,” Pete coughed at him, before wiping his eyes and pushing his chair back from the table. “I’m going to leave now before you make another attempt on my life.” He clapped Patrick on the shoulder as he passed, glancing down at him with a smile. “I’ll see you later, Mr Stump.”

“I look forward to it, my lord,” Patrick said, with an answering smile.

Patrick took a deep, calming breath as the door shut. It might not be much, but it was a start.

**

Mr Blackinton was tall, friendly and terrifying. His intended, Miss Asher was different in that she was just terrifying. But they both smiled when Pete introduced Patrick and apologised for not soliciting an invitation for him before they turned up. Entering the ballroom, Pete was promptly waylaid by a dozen people wanting a piece of him, leaving Patrick to fend for himself. He glanced round, noting that the ballroom was every bit as hot and crowded as he had come to expect. The opulence was dazzling – he and Pete hadn’t been invited for dinner, but there was a vast quantity of food available; vast, crystal chandeliers had been lit and soft candlelight glowed over the brightly-coloured silks of the ladies’ dresses. 

For a moment, it seemed like everyone was talking and laughing amongst themselves and, deserted in the middle of the floor, Patrick felt a momentary desire to hide. Then Pete skidded to a halt next to him.

“I’m so sorry!” he said, a little out of breath from struggling through the crowd. “When someone’s known you since you were a child, you can’t really up and leave in the middle of a conversation. Unless they’re Greta. I do that to Greta all the time. I didn’t mean to abandon you.”

“It’s no trouble,” Patrick said distractedly. He was surreptitiously looking out for Bill and Gabe, or possibly Mr Bryar – someone he knew with whom he could pass the evening. He certainly couldn’t rely on wine to get him through this, that was for sure.

Pete eyed him. “You look a little dazzled,” he said. “Do you want to find a quiet music room? We could hide in there for a while, until people start to leave.”

“That might be a while,” Patrick noted, looking at the assembled throng, already well stuck into the business of Society – defaming people’s characters and drinking. “And please don’t worry. I’ll be fine. But you should go. Enjoy yourself,” he continued hurriedly when Pete frowned. “These are your friends, after all.”

“These are not my friends,” Pete said firmly. “Ryland’s a good sort. Don’t know his bride-to-be, but I will continue to praise her highly until I am out of her house because I’m relatively sure she could kill me with a teaspoon.”

Patrick laughed. “She’s certainly… intimidating.” There had been something familiar about Miss Asher, but he couldn’t quite figure out what.

“You’re not wrong,” Pete said, smiling a little. Pete was ridiculously endearing when he smiled like that. “Shall I fetch us something to drink?”

“Lemonade for me, please,” Patrick said, casting Pete a speaking look, then wondering for one heart-stopping moment whether he shouldn’t have.

Pete just grinned at him, and disappeared into the crowd to fight his way over to the drinks. 

“I was wondering when you were going to leave off your hermitage and rejoin society,” someone said behind him, and Patrick’s heart really did stop.

“Bill,” he said, turning just in time to take his lanky friend’s hug face-first. “It’s been two days,” he told Bill’s shoulder, and Bill pulled back.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Two days you could have spent with me.”

“Yes, but,” Patrick began, and Bill waved him off.

“Never mind. Now, come and be introduced to all the nice people. They’re all just dying to meet you for the very first time. Again.”

“I don’t know any of these people,” Patrick protested plaintively, allowing himself to be towed along in Bill’s wake.

“Of course you do,” Bill told him firmly. “You met all of them during your Season. But since your vow of silence…” he trailed off suggestively and Patrick grimaced at him.

“Is Gabe here?” he asked, and Bill snorted.

“Of course he’s here, I wouldn’t dare leave him at home. He piddles on the furniture if he’s left alone for too long – he’s not house-trained yet.”

“Who?” Gabe asked from behind Patrick, who jumped.

Bill didn’t miss a beat. “Darling! We were just talking about you.”

“I’m sure you were. Patrick, darling, are you alright?”

“Um.” Patrick flushed dully. “Yes. Gabe, I wanted to say-”

“Oh good,” Gabe said, merrily talking over him. “So Pete hasn’t ravished you yet.” Patrick wanted to die; Gabe and Bill clearly thought this was the funniest thing that had ever happened, and were keen to squeeze out every drop of humiliation they could wring from the situation.

“No, he hasn’t ravished me,” he agreed wearily.

“Huh,” Pete said, popping up from behind Gabe. “Lemonade, Patrick, darling?”

“Oh my God,” Patrick said, staring at him, then shutting his eyes for a long moment, willing them all to disappear when he reopened them. Finding his wish ungranted, he took action. “I’m leaving,” he told the assembled company, and disappeared into the crowd.

He made his own way over to the drinks, poured himself some lemonade, and drank it to ward off any possible conversation. Briefly he contemplated going over to hide by the orchestra, but before he could put his plan into action, he was accosted by the guest of honour.

“What on earth are you doing, hiding over here?” Victoria Asher demanded, giving him a solid smack with her fan and fixing him with a gimlet glare. “I’ve worked hard on this party, you know, and you’re going to enjoy every minute of it. Even if you hate it.”

Patrick tried for a polite smile. “Of course, Miss Asher,” he said weakly. “It’s absolutely lovely-”

She raised an incredulous eyebrow. “‘Miss Asher’? What’s this? Patrick, it wasn’t so long ago that we commandeered all the ices at Lady Sefton’s Hunt Ball and made ourselves thoroughly sick.”

He stared at her for an impolite moment, then recognition dawned. “Victoria! I thought you looked familiar.”

“I should hope so,” she told him tartly. “You ruined my puce silk. Mama was furious, I wasn’t allowed out for a week. Where have you been? And what have you been doing with yourself?” She waved her fan at him. “What’s with all – well. This?”

“You just gestured at all of me,” Patrick said, and was ignored.

“And why did you turn up with Wentz?”

“Highleyton,” Patrick corrected automatically.

“Oh yes,” she nodded, tapping her forehead with her fan. “I keep forgetting. It doesn’t matter – that’s not the company you normally keep.” Clearly scenting an opportunity for some Grade A gossip, she linked her arm through his and began to drag him through the crowd.

**

Meanwhile, Pete was being not-so-gently grilled by Gabe in one of the rooms off the ballroom. It had started out civilised – Gabe had poured him some port and offered him snuff, and generally made himself agreeable, which always put Pete on edge. Then the big guns had come out.

“Why did Patrick think you were going to sleep with him?” he asked idly.

Pete pulled a face. “I always hated that euphemism.”

“All right. Why did Patrick think you were going to fuck him?” Gabe said without a flicker in his expression.

Pete winced. “It was a misunderstanding,” he said lamely.

Gabe raised his eyebrows. “Hell of a misunderstanding,” he said blandly. “And how did it arise in the first place?”

Pete sighed. “I told you he owed me money-“

“-wait, so you knew this was going on already?” Gabe frowned.

“Don’t interrupt,” Pete pleaded. “It’s complicated enough as it is.” He took a deep breath. “Ok. When I came to see you the first time, I knew nothing about him.”

“Alright,” Gabe said slowly.

“And when he first came to me and said he couldn’t pay his debt, I thought he was some –some feckless young man living off his father’s money.”

“Like you?” Gabe said shrewdly.

“Yes, exactly like me! And I thought, if he had a gambling problem, he’d be likely to get into trouble with someone else-“

“Someone not as forgiving as you?” Gabe said pointedly.

“Yes,” Pete snapped. “I admit it was stupid, but I wanted to teach him a lesson.”

“So you take a horse to cover the debt! You take furniture! If you were really trying to do the decent thing, you have him blackballed.”

“From the hells?” Pete said, hackles rising. “How would I do that?”

“You know people, I know people, we could have done it. What you _don’t_ do,” Gabe gestured at him with his glass of port, “is tell them the only way to make up the debt is to _prostitute themselves_ for it. Which is what I gather you did from this rather garbled explanation.”  
“Actually, I didn’t.” Gabe raised a dangerous eyebrow and Pete hurried on. “It was Patrick’s suggestion. I took him up on it – which was wrong of me,” he said hastily. “but when I saw him the next day, I saw that I’d been mistaken and changed the terms – or I thought I had. That was where the second misunderstanding came.”

Gabe pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Oh good. A second misunderstanding. Let’s have it.”

Pete sighed. “Do we _have_ to go into this?”

“Well, put it this way. Either you and I can have a gentlemanly chat, or I hand you over to Bill, who is feeling in no way gentlemanly about this debacle. I’d recommend our little chat. Billy has thumbscrews.”

“An anniversary gift, I assume,” Pete said acidly.

Gabe smiled blandly. “So, this second misunderstanding…?”

“Oh, fine. Um. I couldn’t just cancel the debt.”

“Why not?” The dangerous note was back in Gabe’s voice.

“Because our mutual friend has more pride than is good for him,” Pete muttered rebelliously.

“Well, there we can agree,” Gabe said, pouring more port into his glass. “What did he do?”

“I said he could work back the debt as my social secretary, and then I said – something I don’t actually remember, but apparently made an impression on him, about… I don’t know… no one needed to know we had an arrangement… something about closed doors…” Gabe groaned. “And I meant he could save face, that no one had to know about the debt, but _he_ thought I meant… well.”

“That he’d be social secretary and your own personal doxy in private?” Gabe sighed. “I didn’t know Patrick had such a fondness for cheap melodrama. Both of you should be on the stage.”

“I admit it sounds bad.”

“No, see, when I thought you’d gone a bit halfwitted in India and were actually intending to prostitute him, _then_ it sounded bad. Now I know you’re both just idiots, it’s hilarious.”

“I’m so pleased to amused you,” Pete said icily.

“Oh come, Wentz. Don’t get on your high horse with me. Have some port, think about what you’ve done and lighten up. No harm, no foul. And I’ll stand Billy down before he does any major damage to your person. He’s very fond of you, really. He’s just fonder of Patrick.”

“Most people are fonder of Patrick,” admitted Pete. “Even I’m fonder of Patrick.” He sighed. “We were actually getting on quite well. He’s… sweet. Well. No. Not sweet. He’s talented and clever and brilliant and now he hates me. He barely speaks to me now. Just being in the same room makes me want to go back to India so I never have to face him looking awkward and unhappy.”

Gabe fixed him with a look. “Huh,” he said contemplatively. “Question. How long exactly have you been in love with him?”

Pete choked on his port. “What?”

“All I’m saying is, you’ve kind of described exactly how I feel whenever Bill and I have a falling-out.” He shrugged. “And not to bring up lovers past, but the last time you talked about someone like this, you were with Mikey and you really _did_ go to India.”

Pete looked a little white. “I- don’t. I’m not. We’re friends – we _were_ friends,” he corrected himself. “And I hope we’re going to be friends again. I’m not going to jeopardise that.”

Gabe nodded and let it go. “I wouldn’t worry. Patrick’s a forgiving sort. If anything, he’s probably more worried about what you think of him. Just give him some reassurance, a bit of space, he’ll be eating out of your hand again by the end of the week.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Pete said dryly.

Gabe grinned. “I also have a message from Bill. If we hear so much as an inkling of you not treating Patrick with the honour and respect he deserves, we – and by that I mean Bill – will descend upon you with the wrath of God. And thumbscrews. The wrath of God and thumbscrews.”

“And you said Patrick and I should be on the stage,” Pete said, shaking his head.

“Billy has a flair for drama,” Gabe said fondly. “Stop looking so worried. Tell me about the cotton market. I’m trusting you to make me rich…”

**  
Patrick felt a little bit dazed by the time Victoria let him to play hostess. Having spent some time talking to her, it was difficult to imagine he’d forgotten her in the first place – no one was like Victoria. And their come-outs hadn’t been that long ago. Had he really been so absorbed in his financial worries that he’d forgotten all of his old friends?

He drifted back in the direction of the drinks, looking out for Pete and wondering whether he dared indulge in a little wine. The terror of being alone in a ballroom with no one to talk to was starting to wane, and he felt a little bored. Pete was nowhere in sight – Patrick thought he’d seen Gabe make off with him and hoped they weren’t up to anything reprehensible, though without much confidence. 

He was standing by the wall and idly watching the dancers when he heard Pete’s name and glanced up to see whether he’d reappeared. He hadn’t. Instead, a tall, thin woman in a russet gown was talking animatedly to her companions.

“-well, of course, you know,” she said confidentially. “It’s all over town. The Highleyton estate-“ She dropped her voice and Patrick drifted over, knowing that eavesdropping was impolite but curious all the same. “- making up to Lord Michael Way since he got back from India.” Patrick stiffened. “They _say_ that’s the reason Lord Michael and his lady parted company – Highleyton got back from India, lifted a finger and Lord Michael jumped to him.”

“Cecy, how _do_ you know these things?” one of her cohorts, a snub-nosed unfortunate in pink taffeta asked.

Cecy sniffed. “Really, Josephine, anyone who pays the slightest attention to what’s going on in Society knows about Highleyton. All I can say is I hope his new flirt knows what he’s in for.”

“Has he found someone new?”

“No one of any note,” Cecy confided, and Patrick grinned to himself. “Clearly he learnt his lesson the first time. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that this new paramour is little more than a jumped-up lightskirt.”

“Cecy!” Another girl, dressed in an unpleasant shade of green, frowned at her friend. “That’s not kind.”

“Oh, don’t be such a milksop, Anne,” Cecy snapped. “Anyway, the only reason to accept Highleyton’s attentions is for the pay-off. I expect he’s being well-compensated for his efforts.”

Anne frowned at her companions. “I don’t want to hear this,” she said firmly. “Come and find me when you’re done being a spiteful cat.”

She turned and disappeared into the crowd; Patrick wanted to applaud her. He turned to follow her, with a half-formed intention of asking her for a dance, when Cecy’s nasal voice reclaimed his attention.

“Anyway, it’s hardly surprising. Mama’s always said the Highleyton estate was bound to go downhill once the younger Wentz was let loose on it. Apparently, they were hoping he’d die in India so the estate could go to his younger brother – he didn’t even come back for his father’s funeral, which just _shows_ you, doesn’t it?” Arrested, the remnants of his smile slid from Patrick’s face, and he listened on, almost against his will. “And you can’t blame them! He’s unbalanced, _practically_ an alcoholic, I heard he had to be shut up before he was packed off to the sub-continent-”

Patrick had heard enough. Turning back to the group with a bright smile firmly in place, he made sure to stumble into the nearest lady.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said, with an exquisite bow, “but I couldn’t help over-hearing. So you know Lord Highleyton? I’m so jealous, I _so_ want to make his acquaintance.” He had no idea what demon was possessing his tongue; he only knew that talking was the only thing stopping him from picking up a glass of champagne and pouring it slowly down Cecy’s under-filled bodice. “You must know all the juicy gossip about him. I expect you know the family very well.”

Cecy graced him with a small smile. “Well, not _very_ well-”

“Oh,” Patrick said blandly. “You sounded such an authority. But then, I suppose it’s always easy for an empty mind to fill the silence if no one much minds what’s said.”

“I beg your pardon?” Cecy demanded.

“You might, but you’d be better employed begging Lord Highleyton’s,” Patrick said, still under the influence of his demon. For some reason, he’d never been angrier in his life – not even when he and Pete had been fighting. He couldn’t have said why, but he was very sure that insulting Pete was _his_ job, and he wasn’t going to let anyone else muscle in on it. “If you’ve got the brains for it. I don’t know how you have the gall to insult someone else’s mental faculties when your own are clearly sorely lacking, but no matter. I know he’s around here somewhere, shall I find him for you? You might as well get your sordid, back-stabbing gossip right from the source. In fact-”

“Patrick!” Someone said from behind him, while Cecy, red-faced and gasping with fury, gaped at him in silent rage. “Here you are, I’ve been looking for you all over. I hope I’m not interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Patrick said, glancing up at Mikey Way and offering him a faint smile, still too angry to be embarrassed. That would come later, he was sure – he’d be thoroughly ashamed of his behaviour when he had leisure, but not at this moment. “These ladies were just asking after Pete.”

“Were they? How charming. He’s looking for you, you know.”

“I’d hate to keep him waiting,” Patrick said insincerely.

“Lord Michael,” Cecy said curtseying, and still looking rather wrong-footed, Patrick noted with grim satisfaction. 

Mikey looked puzzled, glancing at her with polite disinterest. “Have we been introduced?” he asked, glancing at Patrick. 

“We haven’t, but my brother is a member of your club,” she told him, with enviable poise. “I’m Cecily Straithcarn – I’m sure you know my brother John.”

“I’m afraid we haven’t met,” Mikey said with a perfunctory smile, and prepared to tow Patrick away.

“I don’t know your friend, though,” she said, glaring daggers at Patrick.

Mikey turned round with a sigh only Patrick heard. “I don’t believe there’s any reason you should, Miss Straithcarn,” he said politely. “You and he move in very different circles, I’d imagine. He’s one of the Herefordshire Stumps, you know.”

Having offered her an insult far deadlier than any Patrick could have dreamed up, Mikey towed Patrick away, leaving her dumbfounded in their wake.

“That was very stupid,” Mikey said approvingly. “Victoria will use your innards for decoration when she discovers that you’ve been setting the cat among the pigeons at her engagement party.”

“It’s alright,” Patrick said, his demon well and truly exorcised. A creeping sensation of shame was starting to make itself known. “I’m pretty sure Miss Straithcarn’s brother will challenge me to a duel before Victoria can get to me.”

“And put himself at odds with Highleyton _and_ me? I doubt it. Highleyton and I have far more clout than the Straithcarns, he wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh God, I haven’t got you into trouble, have I?”

Mikey shrugged. “I sincerely doubt it. There are three things everyone knows about my brother: he dotes on Frank, he dotes on me, and the latest rumour going around about him. Last I heard, he was a cannibal. Or was it a vampire? Point is, no one will say anything about me, because Gerard might eat them.”

“Um?!”

“He wouldn’t,” Mikey said, with unimpeachable calm. “Frank keeps him on a very short leash.”

“Ah,” Patrick said weakly, and Mikey flashed a quicksilver grin at him. 

“No one will challenge you because if they do, they’ll have to deal with Pete, the Felsons, Victoria and me, Frank and Gerard. And probably Bob. He seems fond of you.” It had been so long since Patrick had relied on his friends for anything, he didn’t quite know how to respond. “Frankly, even if it was only Pete, he’d probably eviscerate them.” Mikey paused. “ _Especially_ if it was only Pete. The rest of us would just be there to hold him back.”

“Oh.” Patrick wasn’t entirely sure what to say, but luckily he didn’t seem to have to say anything. Mikey patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.

“Let’s see if we can find Pete for you, hm?”

**

“Pete, light of my life,” Bill said, honey-sweet.

“William,” Pete said, sensibly wary. “What are you doing?”

“Mr Blackinton here was just showing me his prized collection of coins,” Bill told him innocently. His cravat was suspiciously askew. Pete eyed Bill’s smug face, and Ryland’s sheepish expression.

“Does Gabe know you’re in – no, does _Victoria_ know you’re in here?”

“Oh yes,” Bill said calmly. “Victoria put us in here. I’m fulfilling long-held wish of Mr Blackinton.” If anything he looked even smugger. 

“You are both reprobates,” Pete told them sanctimoniously, and Bill snorted.

“And this from a well-known john,” he said cattily, and yelped when Pete elbowed him sharply in the ribs. 

“Bill, could we have a word?” he said pointedly, and Ryland swiftly made himself scarce. “Don’t bring that up in public, Bilvy. You know as well as I do that someone will work out what you’re talking about eventually.”

Bill sobered alarmingly rapidly. “I have his interests at heart just as much as you do, Pete.”

Pete thought back to his conversation with Gabe. “Perhaps not quite as much,” he murmured. “But fine. I don’t much care what you say about me, but make sure no one could infer anything about Patrick from what you say.”

Bill looked at him for a long second, then smiled. “I’m not such a fool,” he pointed out. “But it’s good of you to worry about him.”

When Bill left, he looked even smugger than before, and Pete couldn’t for the life of him work out why.

Pete trailed out after him with a half-formed notion of finding Patrick and possibly leaving when he bumped into the very person he’d been looking for. “Hello,” he said awkwardly, noting that Patrick flushed.

“Hello,” Patrick said. “Sorry I ran off earlier.”

“No, no. We were talking to Bill and Gabe. Wanting to run away is only natural. If you hadn’t run off, I would have done. Are you very bored?”

Patrick shrugged and looked strangely sheepish. “I’ve managed to entertain myself.”

“Oh good,” Pete said lamely. “So have I. I was wondering whether you wanted to head home-“

“Would you like to dance?” Patrick blurted out suddenly, his face a violent shade of red. Pete blinked. “I mean. It’s a ball. And. You like dancing. And I can dance. So – if you wanted to-“

“Of course I want to,” Pete said quickly, putting him out of his misery. He grabbed Patrick’s hand and towed him towards the dance floor before Patrick could change his mind.

“Oh god,” Patrick tried to tug himself backwards when he heard the beat. “It’s not a waltz, is it? I never learned how to waltz-“

“Don’t worry, it’s a country dance. We won’t even have to talk.” Pete grinned at him as they took up their positions with the other dancers. “It’s fatal to try to talk when you should be attending to the figure.”

Patrick laughed, bowed as the music started and then came forward to take Pete’s hand.

**

They fell back into the house at Brunswick Square an hour or so later, having taken an executive decision to leave the ball as soon as was decent, avoiding Victoria’s irritated glare and the smugly tolerant looks directed at them by Mikey, Gabe and Bill. They both felt like escapee schoolboys, and they were both far too keyed up to go to sleep like normal adults, so without ever discussing it they sat up late in the drawing room, alternately talking or mocking one of the many books of dreadful poetry with which Pete had stocked his drawing-room bookshelves.

There had been a manic energy buzzing under Pete’s skin all evening, a startling contrast to the grim resignation with which he’d viewed the party this morning, and he had a nagging, worrying feeling he knew what was coming, but he put it out of his mind. He felt like he talked too much, that evening, and that he admitted things he would have preferred, in another mood, to keep private – nothing deeply personal, but thoughts and old stories that he maybe wouldn’t have spoken any other night.

It was unnerving, that feeling of being ever so slightly out of control of himself, and he knew that he’d be paying for it after this, but for one evening, he didn’t care.

He cared the next morning, instead, when he woke up and instantly knew that today was not a day to spend out of bed.

When Andy appeared and threw back the curtains, he huddled himself into a ball under the covers and shook his head with an inarticulate noise of protest.

Andy, not unreasonably, wasn’t so well-versed in Pete-speak that he could differentiate between Pete’s usual morning grumpiness and the Something More which characterised days (and weeks, and months) like these, and tied the curtains back, blithely regardless.

“It’s a beautiful day,” he said cheerfully. “How does sir intend to waste it today?” 

Pete didn’t respond – even if it was a joke, it hit just a little too close to the bone, on a day like today, when it felt like everything he did was a waste. “Send Greta to me,” he told his pillow, which clearly got Andy’s attention.

“Pete?” he said warily, and put a hand on Pete’s blanket-covered shoulder. “Is it one of those days?”

Pete nodded without making eye-contact. “You’d better send Greta in,” he muttered, every word feeling like an admission of defeat.

“Alright,” Andy promised. “D’you want me to bring you anything? Some breakfast?”

“No,” Pete said shortly. More than anything, he wanted to be left alone.

“Alright then,” Andy said soothingly, and left, closing the door behind him as gently as possible. Andy was one of the ones who thought it was best to be as quiet around Pete as possible, when he was like this. There were, Pete knew, two schools of thought amongst his servants on how to behave on a black day: either they were as quiet as possible, or they strained after a normality they never quite managed, which led to a great deal of bright chatter and even more noise. On the whole, Pete preferred the quiet ones, who at least never tried to engage him in conversation, and generally seemed to pretend he wasn’t there. It made him feel a little like maybe he was dying – or possibly already dead, sometimes – but at least it didn’t require him to interact with anyone.

Greta was the only one who achieved any real normality with the whole thing, and she viewed the whole thing with a calm eye. He wanted Greta.

She appeared in short order, eyed him, then ordered Andy to bring up breakfast.

“I know you’ll just ignore it,” she said, clearing detritus off his bedside table, and filling a glass of water for him, “but it’ll be there if you want it.” She perched on the edge of the bed and patted his ankle. “D’you want anything? Books or writing paper or anything?”

“Not yet,” Pete told her. He had at least pushed the covers back, but he didn’t feel up to eye-contact, and he fully intended to have the whole of this conversation staring at the canopy of his bed.

“Alright. Well, you know how to use the bell if you do want anything. And you don’t want to get up, get dressed? You know it makes you feel better.”

Pete did know. He also knew that getting out of bed sounded like an awful lot of effort. “Maybe tomorrow,” he said, without taking his eyes off the canopy. Why had he wanted this canopy? _Had_ he wanted this canopy? It was hideous. He hated it.

“Whenever you like,” Greta shrugged, and he almost looked at her to smile, then decided against it. Eye contact was effort too. “And, ah. What should I tell Mr Stump?”

Oh God, Patrick. Patrick had no idea that Pete had times like these. And how could anyone like someone who couldn’t even get up and dressed? The thought of Patrick just made him feel worse. Patrick could never find out about these days, he thought a little desperately. It would be painfully embarrassing for both of them.

“Tell him I’m sick,” he said quietly. “Contagious. I don’t want to see him.”

“I could ask him to go home so he doesn’t fall ill himself,” Greta offered.

“No,” Pete said shortly. If Patrick went home, he might not come back again. Why would he? “Just keep him away.”

“As you like,” Greta nodded. “Andy will be in with breakfast shortly. I think I’ll come and sit with you this morning,” she added thoughtfully. “Your windows have the best light and I’ve got any amount of sewing to get through.” She eyed him, then smiled. “And if I leave you to your own devices, you’ll get so lost in your own head, you’ll never come back out again.”

If Greta came and sat with him, they both knew, Pete would eventually get bored of the silence. She could always out-last him when it came to that, and eventually he’d sit up and start to talk. Between the two of them, they had getting through these days down to an art, one learnt during long, uncomfortable weeks at Highleyton where Pete’s melancholia and his father’s unspoken irritation with his heir had made the days nigh-on unbearable. They would ride out together and find somewhere to sit – usually the old folly on the edge of the parkland – then stay there for hours at a time, until the dam of indifference which walled him up broke, and he started to talk.

It felt like lancing a boil, but it helped in the long run. It could take days – sometimes he would start by increments, observations almost at random, until it felt like he couldn’t stop talking. Sometimes, he’d throw himself into work, estate papers and accounts and household issues falling before him. In India he’d written pages upon pages of poetry and reportage which he inevitably burnt. But getting it out and getting out of his head was always the best way forward.

“Whatever you like,” he said, instead of trying to express his gratitude. It felt like too big a thing to be spoken out loud, anyway. As much as he could talk, he didn’t think he’d ever reach the end of it.

**

Patrick came down for breakfast feeling positive. Last night had gone well, despite the stilted conversation of yesterday morning, and he was sure that they could re-solidify their fragile friendship with just a little perseverance.

It didn’t surprise him that the breakfast room was empty – Pete only made it down to breakfast every other day or so, at best. Instead of dwelling on it, he helped himself to tea, rather enjoying the early-morning quiet and the (completely erroneous) feeling of being alone in the house. 

The feeling stopped being pleasant and started to get creepy somewhere round eleven o’clock, when Pete would normally be up and would have come by to check in with Patrick by now. Patrick hadn’t even heard any of the servants moving round the house, and it was impossible to miss the sound of the servants in Brunswick Square – no one felt they had to move quietly or be unobtrusive. Past a certain time in the morning, normally the time when Pete got up, it was one of the most pleasantly noisy houses Patrick had ever been in. After the echoing emptiness of his own house, it was something he revelled in, so its absence was peculiarly worrying.

For a while he put it out of his mind and continued to read the newspaper, but half a thought was always wondering what was going on. He was just trying to work up the courage to go and find someone to ask about it – perhaps he’d forgotten an important date of some kind? – when Greta appeared in the drawing room, bobbing him a small curtsey and pausing for a moment.

“Good morning,” he said warily. Greta still hadn’t quite forgiven him for the misunderstanding of the last few weeks, and he’d been careful to tread lightly round her – and she looked grimly determined, which couldn’t be a good sign.

She gave him what might charitably have been called a smile. “Lord Highleyton sent me to tell you that he’s not well. He probably won’t be downstairs today.”

Ice slipped down Patrick’s spine, followed swiftly by a feeling almost like panic. “Is he alright?” he asked quickly. “Is there anything I can do? Should we send for a doctor?”

Greta unbent fractionally; Patrick hardly noticed. “He’ll be fine,” she told him. “There’s no need for a doctor – it’s a recurring complaint for him. He should be alright in a few days, maybe a week or so.”

“It lasts a _week_?!” Patrick exclaimed, shocked. “And you don’t think we should send for a doctor?!”

“A week _at most_ ,” she said calmly. “Don’t worry about him, Mr Stump. He’ll be fine, I know how to get him through these attacks.”

“You’re sure?” 

“Completely.”

Patrick paused, eyeing her for a second, trying to get his own thoughts under control, to remember the things he should say rather than the things he wanted to. He knew something was going on – Greta was being unusually vague about this ‘complaint’ – but he wasn’t going to press her on the subject when Pete was ill. He just couldn’t shake the feeling of panic that appeared whenever someone he was close to was ill. And whatever he wasn’t being told was clearly important, more important than the mere specifics of an illness; he definitely had reason to worry. “Alright,” he agreed reluctantly. “Can I do anything? I doubt I’m much of a sick-nurse, but I could – well, I could. I could read to him? Or-”

“The best thing you can do is keep yourself away from him,” Greta said bluntly, and Patrick tried not to flinch. He clearly didn’t succeed, because she hurried on, “he’s contagious! It’ll make everyone’s lives easier if we don’t have to nurse both of you.”

“Oh. Of course. Um.” He paused again, wondering how to phrase what he wanted to say without it sounding pointed. “Would it be easier if I went home?” he asked diffidently. He didn’t want to – he wanted to know that Pete would be alright, to ask for concrete reassurance. But that didn’t mean it might not be for the best. “I mean, then everyone can focus on Pete. Er, Lord Highleyton. It’s a lot to ask you to look after me-”

“There are more than enough of us,” Greta told him, amused. “I don’t think you’re going to be that much of a strain on our resources, Mr Stump.”

“If you’re sure,” he said doubtfully. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“I doubt we’ll even know you’re here,” she said, and smiled properly for the first time since this whole misunderstanding had come out. He smiled back, hoping it didn’t look as wan as he felt. “I should get back to Lord Highleyton. Let one of the others know if there’s anything you need, or want.”

“I will,” he nodded absently. “And, er, give my best wishes to Pete. I hope he gets better soon?”

“So do we all,” Greta agreed softly. “I’ll tell him.”

When she’d left, and the room was empty of all but the impassive footman, Patrick stared silently at the newspaper he’d been reading, no longer even seeing the words. The situations weren’t the same, he told himself firmly. It was ridiculous to even compare them. But he couldn’t help but remember that the last time he’d been banned from a sickroom, his brother had never come out of it.

**

Patrick pulled himself together as quickly as possible. Moping around wouldn’t help anyone, least of all Pete, and he’d only be making things more difficult if he let himself get too worked up about this – he didn’t want to add any strain onto an already strained household. Abandoning the newspaper as a lost cause, he went back to his room and tried to interest himself in _The Monk_ , with minimal success, until Joe appeared in his room.

“I just heard about Lord Highleyton,” Joe told him without preamble. “I came to see how you were.”

“How _I_ am?” Patrick asked, straining to pretend he didn’t know exactly what Joe meant. “I’m not ill.”

Joe gave him a look which clearly said he didn’t have time for any of Patrick’s pathetic manoeuvrings. “Patrick,” he said firmly. “Don’t pretend I’m stupid.”

Patrick didn’t take the obvious retort, choosing instead to put his book down very deliberately. “ _I_ feel stupid,” he said quietly. “And selfish. Pete’s ill, and all I can think is – well. All I can think about is Kevin. I’m a terrible person. A terrible _friend_. I should be worried about Pete, not thinking about – it was _six years_ ago.”

Joe didn’t try to reason with him, or talk him out of it. He just pulled Patrick into a hug, patting him awkwardly on the back before pulling back. “You’re not a terrible friend,” he told him, cuffing him lightly on the back of the head. “What happened to – with – Kevin was pretty traumatic, Patrick. At some point we all learn that it doesn’t matter how young or healthy someone is, sometimes they die, no matter how much help they get. You’re worried that’ll happen to Lord Highleyton. You worried that’d happen to me when I got a head-cold last winter.”

“Hey, that head-cold was serious,” Patrick retorted, relaxing just a little. 

“Sure it was,” Joe agreed. “You had Mrs Sowerby make me wear mustard plasters. For three days.”

“And you’re not dead.”

“True. I just wished I was.” Joe patted his shoulder. “Lord Highleyton’ll be fine. Just like I was fine, and Megan was fine that time she had the flu. People don’t die every time they’re sick.”

“Yes, I know.” Patrick smiled weakly. “I know it’s not a _rational_ fear.”

“I’ve long given up expecting you to be rational,” Joe shrugged, slanting a smile at him, and Patrick smiled back, a little reassured by Joe’s calm. 

“What’s the gossip in the servant’s hall about this, then?” he asked, hoping to get more information on the whole thing. The worst part was not knowing what was actually wrong with Pete, and the servants always knew everything.

But Joe just shrugged. “Everyone’s being pretty close-mouthed,” he said helplessly. “I can’t ask, they don’t want my help… I don’t know what’s actually going on up there. He’s been like this before, I think.”

“Greta said it was a recurring complaint,” Patrick nodded.

“Then you know as much as me,” Joe told him. “Want me to keep an ear open?”

“Let’s not spy on the man in his own house,” Patrick demurred, wishing his parents had given him fewer scruples.

“I’d do a lot worse to the man in his own house,” Joe muttered rebelliously, and Patrick laughed a little.

“He’s a better person than you give him credit for.”

“I’ll believe that when I get proof of it,” Joe said darkly. “And,” he continued, more normally, “you’re a better friend than you give yourself credit for. But so am I, because I left breakfast to come and cheer you up. Can I go back to it now? Or would you like to angst a little more?”

“I promise to angst at a less anti-social hour next time,” Patrick assured him solemnly.

“See? You’ve got this friendship nonsense down to an art,” Joe said cheerfully. 

Patrick laughed, consciously putting aside his worry to deal with another time. It niggled at the back of his mind, but if he made a conscious effort to ignore it it wasn’t so bad. “Flattery will get you back to your breakfast,” he agreed, and Joe grinned at him, not even the slightest bit abashed, and disappeared with no more than a backwards wave.

Patrick was left a little at loose ends and wondering what he could do next. It wasn’t that he had nothing to do – he had Megan’s letter to reply to, pamphlets to finish and start, and there was always the piano or the books Pete had lent him. The problem was settling down to something. The books couldn’t hold his attention, he already knew that. His pamphlets were downstairs, and he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to keep an appropriately stiff upper lip outside the comfortable privacy of his room – which ruled out the piano and replying to Megan, whose letter was still in the desk drawer in the drawing room.

So it was boredom, or pulling himself together. He could do this.

Perhaps he wouldn’t meet anyone on the way downstairs.

He slunk into the drawing room a few minutes later with a shameful sense of relief. He’d met no one but the red-headed housemaid, Hayley, who’d curtseyed but hadn’t seemed to view his very presence as a wearisome burden. Nor had she appeared to see at a glance just how poor a friend he’d been and was being to Pete, and seeing her didn’t make Patrick flee back to his room, tail between his legs.

Perhaps he actually could get through this.

Thoroughly relieved to have reached the relative sanctuary of the drawing room, he sat himself at the desk and debated trying to write his pamphlets, but discarded the idea. Until he knew what was wrong with Pete, he was going to be worrying unduly about it – until he could stop worrying unduly, he wouldn’t be able to concentrate enough to write a laundry list, let alone an appropriately crawling review of last week’s Opera.

On the other hand, his feelings at the moment _were_ concerns he could share with Megan. She might be nearly ten years his junior, but she would understand better than anyone how Patrick felt right now. For once, it would be nice to be able to share a worry with his sister – for the last several years, he’d been trying to shield her from his worries. And Megan wouldn’t mind if his letter wasn’t very good. Decisively, he pulled a piece of paper out, inked the quill, and began.

 _Dear Megan_ , he wrote, then stopped, chewing the tip of his quill and wondering where to start.

 _Thank you for your letter_ , he went on slowly. _I am definitely horrified that you only practise piano for an hour a day, but if I know you, you would play less if you could get away with it. It is a pity that there is no harp teacher at Miss Cardew’s, but if we were the sort of family that could afford to send you to a school that boasted a harpist, you would probably have been educated at home by a pack of governesses. I don’t know which of us would have hated it more._

There. That was alright – light-hearted, easy. So far so good.

 _Your harp is still waiting for you at home, if you still want to play it. You were so good when I last heard you. I would be happy to have it tuned for you. But_ , this was difficult to write, _I don’t know when you will next be home. You should definitely accept Miss Hyde’s invitation. I would love to see you over the holidays, but I don’t think I will be at home then myself, and it would be outside of enough to ask Lord Highleyton to put us both up, much though I would like to see you. I don’t know how long I will be staying with him, and Miss Hyde will want an answer before I know. If I am home before your holidays end, perhaps you could end your visit early. I would so like to see you again soon._ Which was at least one of the hard parts over with. He just had to get through the next bit.

 _As for your questions about Pete, I don’t think I’ll answer all of them, for fear he might insist on reading this letter before he franks it. (I’m joking of course. He wouldn’t. I don’t think.) He is not, so far as I know, a criminal, or if he is, he is a very good one, and I respect excellence in all its forms, even if it is base larceny. He_ is _very wealthy, but we are not going to get married, so put that thought out of your head, please. He is very kind and very amiable, but I think very wealthy, very well-born men only marry for love, don’t you? If that isn’t the case, I had rather not know. I would like to think that_ someone _can marry for love._

_He is a very good friend, though._

Patrick chewed his quill again thoughtfully. How could he describe Pete to Megan? She’d met all his other friends as a child, and Pete seemed to defy easy classification.

Instead of labouring the point, he shrugged it off and wrote simply, _I like him very much._

 _The problem is that he is ill_ , Patrick went on, the words coming more easily now he was onto the reason for his letter. _I know everyone means it kindly, but no one will tell me what is wrong, and of course he wouldn’t want me in his sickroom. Even Joe cannot find out anything, and you know how good he is at worming these things out of people. I worry that something is dreadfully wrong, and once again, I will only find out when it is all over. If only there were something I could do to help! But I would be a poor sick-nurse, and I might make things worse. I just wish someone would tell me what is going on._

_You are probably shaking your head over this, knowing I am overreacting. But they told me it was a recurring complaint – what if he caught some illness in India? (Did I tell you he was in India? I believe he spent several years there.) I worry about these things, Meg; I don’t have so many friends that I can bear losing one with equanimity. And Pete is such good company, and he has been so kind. He has been a much better friend to me than I knew, or than I have been to him. I need to make that up._

There it was, Patrick thought, laying his quill down and flexing his fingers absently. Under all his worries about illnesses and sickrooms was the fear he would never get the chance to repair his friendship with Pete – and at some point, being friends with Pete had become quietly important to him. He could well imagine life without Pete; he just didn’t _want_ to. And in Patrick’s experience, people who went into sickrooms rarely came out of them.

In a small way, it was a relief to work out why he was so upset. He would always have an aversion to sickrooms, but the fear that he would never have the opportunity to repair his friendship with Pete was the issue at stake.

If – when – Pete reappeared, Patrick would try harder to make sure their relationship got back on track. He still had questions he wanted to ask – Joe’s point about why Pete had accepted Patrick’s original offer had stuck – but he had a dim notion that they could have something which would make getting past this misunderstanding worthwhile.

In the meantime, though, he had to finish Megan’s letter, and he busied himself re-trimming the quill where the ink had dried on it and planning what to say next. 

_Forgive me – I know I’m over-reacting. I will write again when he has recovered, and we can both laugh at me. In the meantime, ask Miss Cardew to have some prayers for the sick said. Call her Madame Beauparlant if you think it will turn her up sweet. You know what to do. How are things at school anyway? I promise not to make your sampler into a cushion if you promise to let me see it. I hope you chose one of the really inappropriate verses, then smiled sweetly and asked why you couldn’t embroider it. I know you did, and I am very proud of you._

_I saw Bill and Gabe the other night at an honest-to-God ball I went to. Pete and I go out regularly, and it is much pleasanter to go out with a friend than by myself. Unfortunately, I cannot dance with Pete. Either we both forget the steps, or he makes me laugh, and I step on someone’s dress. Last night I tore the flounce off a lady’s dress, and I thought she was going to slap me – Pete had to intervene. But it was his fault for telling such terrible jokes. I will write more soon, but if I go on much further, I will go onto a second sheet, and even with a frank, I cannot bring myself to do it. I only just have room to sign myself,_

_Your very loving brother,  
Patrick._

He sealed and addressed it, then sat back with a sense of accomplishment. He’d solved his own mystery and got a job done. If only Pete weren’t ill, today would be a good day.

**

Today could have been such a good day, Pete thought miserably, still staring up at the canopy of his bed. Greta was humming to herself as she sewed, the early-spring sunlight was pouring in through the windows, and last night he’d thought that he and Patrick were moving back onto solid ground in their friendship, getting past the awkwardness of their revealed misunderstanding.

In the too-bright sunlight, it was obvious that that might as well have been a fever dream. How could Pete expect Patrick - _Patrick_ \- to like him? Even he didn’t like himself. 

“I wish I could get Patrick to like me,” he told the canopy.

Greta didn’t reply – she was too familiar with the rules of the odd little game they played on days like these.

“Gabe thinks I’m in love with him,” Pete continued, examining a particularly ugly rose in the left-hand corner. “But surely to be properly in love with someone, they have to be in love with you?”

And that was a question, which meant Greta could answer it. “Rubbish,” she said absently, still mending a tear in one of Pete’s shirts. It wasn’t a housekeeper’s job to do the sewing, Pete knew that much, but Greta seemed to rather like it. “It’s plenty possible to be in love with someone who doesn’t love you back.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Pete said, half to the canopy, half to her.

“If I thought it was my job to make you feel better on days like this, I’d emigrate,” she told him, tying off her thread. “But if Mr Stump doesn’t love you back, it’s not because you’re not lovable, Pete.”

“I never said I was in love with him,” Pete said, fully to Greta now.

“I’m neither blind nor stupid,” she said tartly, folding the shirt and moving on to an unhemmed sheet, beginning to pin it into place. “Even if you’re not in love with him, you’d like very much for him to be in love with you, wouldn’t you?”

“If he were in love with me, I wouldn’t be worrying about him leaving,” Pete said, and hated himself just a little bit more for it. That was an awful reason to want someone to love him, even if it was more or less true. True, but not the whole truth. 

“And why are you worrying about him leaving?” Greta asked reasonably.

Pete considered it. “Because sooner or later everyone leaves,” he said quietly. “They go off and get married or they send me to India or they have lives to get back to. I’d like to find someone whose life automatically includes me.”

“All of your friends’ lives include you.”

“Not-” as much as I’d like, he’d been about to say, and that was fairly despicable, even for him. “Not the way I’d like,” he settled on finally, after a long and probably telling pause. “I have you, and Gabe and Bill and Mikey, and you’re all-” wonderful people who put up with him and laughed with him and were good for him. “-fantastic. But you all have lives that – that don’t include me completely. That’s how friendship works, isn’t it? We overlap a bit, but we part and don’t see every part of each other’s lives. I want someone who knows me completely and who I know completely and – I want to share my life completely with someone else.”

“Well,” Greta said around a mouthful of pins. “If you think Mr Stump is that person, maybe you shouldn’t have had me tell him to keep away. If you want him to share everything about your life – and his life with you – he’ll have to find out about these days eventually.”

“I don’t know if he is that person,” Pete said, and shut his eyes, because he _was_ sure of it, but that was the first time he’d ever lied to Greta on one of these days. But it didn’t matter, because his relationship with Patrick was in ruins. He’d ruined his best chance, without even knowing it. “And I don’t want him to know,” he added miserably. He paused, then asked quietly, “how is he?”

“He looked worried when I told him you were ill,” Greta said softly. “And asked if we should send for a doctor, or if there was anything he could do to help. And then he asked if he should go home, to save the servants any trouble.”

Pete actually looked at her then. “You didn’t-”

“Of course I didn’t say yes,” Greta said tartly, threading her needle. “Do you take me for a fool? He’ll still be here when you feel up to seeing him again. He’ll probably be very glad to see you.”

Pete nodded, and curled up on his side, shutting his eyes against the warm April sunlight. He was so tired of trying to sort himself out. 

He wished he could believe there would _ever_ be a time when Patrick would be pleased to see him.

**

Pete hadn’t emerged from his sickroom for three days, and Patrick was starting to feel a little frantic. No one would tell him anything, and though there was none of the bustle that had accompanied Kevin’s long illness, and his last battle against the wounds he’d had at Waterloo – hot water being called for, endless streams of bandages and sheets and laudanum going in and out – he couldn’t help but worry that something dreadful was going to happen any minute now.

He’d been sat at the piano, staring out of the large bay window in Pete’s drawing room, and he’d started to play almost absently, until a happy accident caught his attention, and he replayed it to see if he still liked it. The replay convinced him and sent him scurrying for paper and ink. He somewhat guiltily pulled three sheets of Pete’s good hot-pressed paper out or the writing desk, scrawling staves onto them as neatly as he could and hurrying back to the piano to write down his happy accident.

An hour or so later, he pulled back and cast a critical eye over what he’d written down. It might make a decentish prelude to a nocturne, if he spruced it up a bit, and if inspiration ever hit to give him the next movement.

Thoughtfully, he played it through again, and made a couple of changes, frowning in irritation when his quill sputtered over the page. Waving the piece of paper to dry the ink, he wondered where the music had come from. He’d composed since he arrived at Pete’s house – but then, he tended to be composing music all the time, in his head. Most of it was useless – riffs of other people’s music, or snippets that did no good to anyone, least of all Patrick – but sometimes inspiration struck like this. Most of the time, pieces took a while to take shape properly, needing a few days to come together, or requiring time to work them into shape. 

He stared at the scrawled sheet music, absently writing in the time signature and making some of the notes clearer, reading it through again. Where had it come from? The whole tone of the piece seemed more rounded and deeper than anything he’d written before – not better, just more. What was the added element?

It was a shock to realise that the added element could only be Pete. 

He played it through one more time, testing out the hypothesis. It made sense – despite the hopeful, major melody, there was an underlying minor refrain acting in counterpoint, which perfectly mirrored how Patrick was feeling and had felt about Pete. Somehow it encapsulated the negative parts of their relationship – Patrick’s early resentment and unease, his later awkwardness, his current fears – and played them out, tying them in and resolving them with the major theme.

Patrick just hoped he and Pete got as tidy a resolution.

**

Pete was at least up today, even if he was still in his room, and dressed in a ratty shirt and a pair of breeches Andy approvingly deemed unfit for aristocratic use. Just managing to get up and dressed felt like a major achievement during episodes like these – he didn’t feel half so much of a failure when he’d actually managed to get out of bed.

Greta was fast running out of sewing, but she’d already told Pete that she’d like to go over the household accounts with him at some point in his not-too-distant future, so there was no likelihood that he’d be left alone unless he specifically asked her to go. And in their own way, the accounts were a good thing – if Greta thought he was up to going through accounts, he was clearly up to it. Greta was often better at judging these things than he was.

“Leave the door open,” he told Andy when he left his lunch on the side table. He felt braver today – brave enough at least to deal with being seen by the people who might pass by the door.

He half-hoped Patrick would come by; he was a little terrified that Patrick actually might.

Greta offered him a distracted smile from her seat by the window, where she was finishing up darning a blanket.

“You must be feeling a little better,” she said encouragingly.

Pete shrugged. “Maybe,” he said noncommittally. For a few moments, there was silence while Pete quietly reacclimatised himself to the noises of the house, slowly relegating each everyday sound to background noise.

As he listened, he began to pick up something that could never be categorised as simple background noise.

“Patrick’s playing,” he observed, smiling faintly.

“Mm,” Greta agreed absently, the blanket spread out over her lap, eyes fixed on her darning.

Pete listened more closely. “I don’t recognise the piece,” he murmured, careful not to talk to loudly and miss so much as a bar.

It was beautiful, he thought, then wondered whether he thought that because he knew it was Patrick playing. Most things Patrick did were beautiful, as far as Pete was concerned – unlike Pete himself, who seemed to make everything touched twice as ugly. Successful, maybe, but never beautiful.

But he pushed those thoughts away, because he was starting to feel better. He _would_ get better. He was determined. Every doctor said it was a case of will power.

The music helped. He could hear the underlying melancholy in the melody, but it resolved into the major theme every time it threatened to overpower it. And there was hope in the major theme, even Pete could hear it – and he wasn’t much in the habit of music criticism. But this spoke to him on a more instinctive level. For the first time in months, he felt like writing – he hadn’t really _wanted_ to write since he got back from India. He hadn’t stopped writing, but he had stopped feeling inspired for it.

“I want to know what he’s playing,” he said abruptly. “Can you ring for Andy?”

Greta finished her stitch and set the blanket aside. “I’ll go,” she said, and smiled at him. “Mr Stump might get stage-fright in front of someone else.”

Pete nodded and managed a smile. It felt good to be interested in something again.

**

Patrick finished playing the piece through for the final time and noted the few final changes he’d made as he played, trying out the old version to see if the changes were for the better. Nodding to himself, he sat back and surveyed it, contemplating writing up a fair copy for himself – there was probably something he could do with it, after all.

He startled a little when the door opened, looking up sharply, only to see Greta.

A bolt of actual fear lodged in his stomach. “Is Pete alright?” he demanded, and she smiled reassuringly.

“He’s much better today, thank you, sir,” she told him calmly. “He’s taking much more of an interest in his surroundings. In fact, he was asking what you were playing.” She smiled encouragingly at him and he felt the way his face flushed hot.

“Oh, it’s – it’s,” he stammered. “It’s just a nocturne. Part of a nocturne. It’s nothing serious.”

“Do you know any more of it? I think Lord Highleyton would like to hear it if you know it.”

“N-no. I don’t know any more of it,” he told her, strictly literal.

“Oh,” Greta smiled, “shame. It sounded lovely. Who wrote it?”

Patrick thought quickly. “Oh, um. No one important,” he said, straining after ease. “I don’t remember the name.”

“Ah. Well, don’t let me disturb you – keep playing. It sounds beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Patrick told her weakly, watching her go. The thought that Pete had heard the piece – when he’d thought no one could hear him, or at least that no one would be _listening_ – felt like Pete had read a love letter Patrick had written to him.

Hurriedly, he gathered up the music and headed back up to his room, keen to be somewhere private to brood on these new developments in peace. Let Pete think what he wanted; Patrick had some thinking of his own to do.

**

“He wrote it,” Greta announced triumphantly. “He flushed and looked conscious, he _definitely_ wrote it.”

Pete looked up. “Patrick wrote that?” 

“Oh, he gave me some faff about not being able to remember the name of the composer, but you can’t tell me that man has ever forgotten the name of a composer in his life. He wrote it, I’d bet you anything.”

“I want to go down for dinner,” Pete told her suddenly, and Greta eyed him, uncomfortably knowing.

“Alright then,” she agreed finally. “Do you want to bathe and change?”

“Yes,” he said decisively. “Call Andy to me, please. And I want to shave.”

Greta grinned suddenly. “I’m glad to hear it – you look a fright. Mr Stump’s been eating in the breakfast room while you’ve been ill. We’re all very grateful to him; it’s a lot less work than setting up the dining room.”

“Then I’ll eat in there with him,” he said quickly. “I think it’s about time I got out of this room, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” she nodded firmly. “But you’re doing brilliantly well.”

He looked at her for a long second, then, suddenly, smiled widely. “Flatterer,” he accused, and she winked at him.

“Anything to get out of this room, dearest,” she told him, and hugged him quickly before stepping back and smoothing down her dress, returning to her expertly-assumed role of correct housekeeper.

Pete caught her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, without quite meeting her eyes. “For all – this.”

“Don’t you dare,” she told him with surprising fierceness, squeezing his hand tightly. “It’s not your fault. You can’t help it and I love you. I _want_ to help.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“No one will ever deserve me,” she agreed airily, and smiled. “But you come close.”

**

Patrick came down for dinner with the same sinking feeling he’d had at every meal since Pete had fallen ill. He wished he could have taken his meals in his room, but that really would be making too much work, and at least he wasn’t in the intimidating panelled dining room all by himself.

But when he arrived in the morning room, he wasn’t alone. Pete was waiting for him, and Patrick couldn’t quite hide the rush of relief. Pete looked a little thin – though that might just have been Patrick’s mind playing tricks on him – and his eyes were red-rimmed and a little hectic, but he was _there_ , and he didn’t look like he was dying.

“Pete!” he said, and couldn’t quite control his smile. He wanted to go over and check that Pete was properly alright – he wanted to hug him – he wanted not to be in the same room as him at all. “You look – better,” he said, instead of doing anything, locking his hands behind his back, and trying to smile like a sane person.

“Much better,” Pete agreed, smiling back. The smile was a little strained and a little wan, and for a moment Patrick was reminded of the circumstances they had been in before they had started to work their way back towards friendship. He remembered abruptly that just because he’d realised how easy it would be to fall in love with Pete, that didn’t mean Pete was in any danger of falling in love with him – for a second, he nearly turned tail and ran back to his room. Then Pete’s smile softened, and he ushered Patrick to a seat at the table. “This was a good idea,” he said, resting his hand on Patrick’s shoulder for half a second before taking his own seat. “Eating in here. I don’t think I could have faced the dining room tonight.”

“I didn’t like being in there without you,” Patrick told him, then wondered why he hadn’t just said ‘alone’.

Pete looked at him for a long moment. “I know how you feel,” he said quietly. “I missed our talks while I was – ill.”

“Really?” Patrick said, his voice more hopeful than he’d have liked. He looked down at the place-setting, and when he looked up again, Pete was smiling at him, all trace of strain gone.

“Really,” he said sincerely. He paused, hovering on the edge of saying something, then shook his head. “Let’s not go another three days without talking,” he said lightly, and Patrick smiled.

“Agreed,” he nodded, then laughed. “I was so worried,” he admitted, in a large-spirited frame of mind, relief loosening his tongue. “You have no idea.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Pete said apologetically, and Patrick shook his head. 

“Don’t,” he said quickly. “You weren’t well. You shouldn’t have to apologise for it.”

Something in Pete’s face shuttered for a second, but when he next looked at Patrick, his eyes were smiling. “Thank you,” he said simply, and Patrick shrugged, a little embarrassed, but warmed all the same.

“Take your recovery slowly,” he advised firmly, rather than say any of the things he wanted to say. “There’s no rush for anything. You’re Lord Highleyton.” He smiled again, trying to hide his worry. “Everything will wait for you. And everything that won’t, I’ll _make_ them wait. I’ve been writing your apologies to everyone, and I can continue to do that for as long as you like.”

“I don’t know what I did without you,” Pete said easily, and Patrick ducked his head. “Have you been going out yourself? Or taking Lucky Sixpence out?”

“No – no, I don’t – it’s no fun, without you. I couldn’t bring myself to – not while you were ill.” That was a little too honest, and he kept his eyes fixed firmly on his hands as one of the footmen placed the dishes on the table. “Shall I carve?” he asked, to cover the moment, standing before Pete even began to nod. “I haven’t taken Lucky Sixpence out,” he said conversationally, eager to get past his moment of embarrassing honesty, putting some beef on Pete’s plate and handing him the wow-wow sauce, “because I don’t trust her yet. She’s docile enough when you’re there, but if I take her out by myself, I’m willing to bet she’ll bolt, and then I won’t be able to get her to stop, and I’ll be too ashamed to come back. I’ll just have to live wherever she stops.”

Pete laughed. “They I absolutely forbid you to take her out,” he said firmly, still smiling. “I can’t allow you to disappear on me.”

“I wouldn’t,” Patrick said, without thinking about it, seating himself and pouring wow-wow sauce over his beef even though he hated it. He couldn’t quite believe the things he was saying. Was this flirting? It didn’t _feel_ like flirting. Patrick had always hazily assumed that flirting involved lying, or at least half-truths. He hadn’t lied once – if anything, he’d been more honest with Pete in the last half-hour than he had been for the whole of their relationship. 

It didn’t matter, though. The smile Pete gave him made all the uncertainty and embarrassment completely worth it.

They didn’t actually talk a great deal over dinner – Pete was in a retiring mood, and seemed content to be silent. Patrick didn’t want to push him. It was a comfortable silence, in any case; Patrick couldn’t remember feeling so comfortable with someone outside his own family, and Pete seemed happy enough. Occasionally, they would catch each other’s eye and smile, but no real conversation took place.

Pete went back to his room before the tea tray arrived in the drawing room, with a promise to see Patrick tomorrow. Left alone in the drawing room, Patrick smiled as he poured himself a cup of tea, and, on a whim, sat down at the piano again. Idly, he picked out a melody, a potential follow-on to his first nocturne piece.

This piece sounded like a triumph.

**

They took the next week slowly while Pete recuperated. Some days, Pete just sat in the drawing room, scribbling in his notebook and ribbing the pages out to throw away. Patrick didn’t try to make him talk, knowing somehow that Pete didn’t want it – he just wanted companionship.

Other days, Pete would be perfectly willing to talk if Patrick started the conversation. Patrick was happy to talk about whatever Pete wanted, but he felt his real victory was getting Pete to come out for a drive with him. That paved the way for Pete to suggest a ride out, a wicked gleam in his eye.

“To exercise Lucky Sixpence,” he said innocently. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there to make sure she doesn’t try and steal you away.”

Finally, Pete went through his post to decide what he did and didn’t want to go to, rather than have Patrick write a refusal to everything that came in. Since that clearly meant he was willing to go out again, Patrick could only think that was a good thing.

“Oh, Mikey’s having a party next week,” Pete said, with the first glimmer of enthusiasm Patrick had seen yet for anything outside the house.

“Shall I write and accept?” Patrick asked, keen to keep that spark of interest alive.

“Please,” Pete nodded, handing him the invitation. Patrick carefully didn’t look at the personal message Mikey had scrawled on the back. “Oh, and the Sefton’s ball! I like Lady Sefton. Let’s go.”

“This invitation doesn’t include me, Pete,” Patrick pointed out, and Pete shrugged. 

“I can write to her if you want. But I’m not going to go without you.” Patrick tried not to flush, pleased.

“Alright. How about this?”

“Mm – Mrs Lascombe. I think she might actually come and drag me out if we don’t go. If we put in an appearance, she’ll probably leave us alone. Say we’ll come, if you please.”

“As you like,” Patrick nodded, making a note on the invitation. “Oh, I’m included on this!” Inexplicably, Pete flushed as he shrugged.

“She rarely leaves anything to chance,” he said without meeting Patrick’s eyes. “Do you mind? Coming with me, I mean?”

“I thought we both said we wouldn’t go to anymore of her hell-parties,” Patrick said, grinning, and Pete smiled back reluctantly.

“I know,” he agreed, a note of apology in his voice, “but if we don’t go, I’ll get all sorts of recriminations for the next – God, the next few years, at least. It’s not worth it.”

“Fair enough,” Patrick nodded, agreeable. “Just don’t wander off and leave me to the tender mercies of the mamas, please.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Pete promised sincerely, and Patrick laughed. 

“Excellent. Now, how about-”

“Enough,” Pete whined, pushing the proffered invitation away. “I’ve said we’ll go to three whole parties, isn’t that enough? I’m sure I have actual work I could be doing, and you hate these things. Isn’t there a concert or something we could go to, if we _have_ to be outside?”

Patrick paused, a little taken aback. “Well, we don’t have to go outside,” he pointed out, deciding to take that little speech one point at a time. “I just thought you’d be going a little mad, stuck in here with only me for company, now Greta’s not always around for you to talk to.” Pete opened his mouth to say something, and Patrick hurried on. “ _And_ , I don’t hate the balls and parties and things. They’re sort of fun, when we go together.” That was probably a bit to revealing, so he rushed on, desperate to distract Pete from it. “And if you don’t want to go out, we don’t have to go to anything at all. If this is for _my_ benefit,” because Pete had a definite habit, Patrick had noticed, for doing things he thought Patrick would like, regardless of his own thoughts on the matter, “I’m just has happy staying in with you. I _like_ staying in with you.”

Dammit. In his haste to distract Pete from one conversational blunder, he’d stumbled right into another.

For a second, Pete eyed him consideringly, then grinned widely. Patrick was stubbornly uncharmed by him. “Mr Stump, you flatterer,” Pete said, and slid close to him on the sofa. Patrick did his best to remain stoic. “Admit it. You _like_ me.”

“I never made a secret of it,” Patrick said stiffly, and Pete laughed, the stupid braying horse-laugh that meant he was really, actually amused. “Something funny, Lord Highleyton?”

“Watching you poker up over friendship _is_ funny,” Pete said, unrepentant. 

“As ever, I’m glad to amuse you,” Patrick said, unbending a little, smiling unwillingly. Pete grinned back, delighted.

“And I live to make you smile,” he said extravagantly, and laughed again when Patrick flushed and his annoyance at flushing clearly showed itself on his face. “You’re my favourite,” Pete told him, apparently just because he could.

**

Pete watched Patrick’s face, and grinned to himself. Things weren’t better – perhaps, he admitted to himself, privately in his own head, things would never really be better. But for now, life was good. This afternoon, he and Patrick would probably sit in the drawing room, while Patrick wrote – whatever it was Patrick wrote; they weren’t letters, but they didn’t seem to be a diary or a novel either. Pete wasn’t really sure _what_ they were, and he hadn’t yet had the courage to ask – and Pete either went through his business correspondence or talked, incessantly and at random. Patrick had never seemed to mind Pete’s chatter, and always seemed to know when his input was required, even though he obviously wasn’t giving Pete his full attention. It was – nice. Calming. Pete didn’t feel quite so much like a failure, because Patrick clearly thought he was worth his time.

It probably wasn’t healthy, Pete admitted to himself regretfully, to base so much of his self-worth on other people’s opinions of him. But somehow, Patrick’s good opinion was so much more worth earning than anyone else’s, and even more extraordinarily, given their history together, Pete seemed to have earned it. That was worth a little pride.

Between Patrick and Greta and his own improving mood, Pete was sure that things were getting better. Things were going to be _fine_.

He re-evaluated that position three days later when he was waiting for Patrick in the hall to go to Mikey’s party.

“I don’t even like Mikey,” he lied flagrantly, Greta standing patiently behind him

“Yes, you do,” she said firmly. She’d already sent him back upstairs to change once, claiming his cravat was an affront to decency – she clearly had every intention of forcing him out the front door if he started to cavil too much. “You like Lord Michael, and you like plenty of other people who’ll be there, and you like going out with Mr Stump. You’ll have a wonderful evening.”

“I will have a mediocre evening, just to spite you,” Pete told her, checking his watch again, and taking unnecessary care as he replaced it in his pocket. “And where is Patrick? He’s never late.”

“I’m here, I’m here!” Patrick said, hopping down the stairs, pulling one shoe on. His cravat was askew and his waistcoat was unbuttoned. “I’m sorry, Joe and I couldn’t find my cravats. Or my shoes. I think Joe hid them when we unpacked again, and forgot where he put them.”

For once, Patrick’s oblique allusion to their fight and the moment when he’d almost walked out of Pete’s house for good didn’t even put a dent in Pete’s mood. It was already too battered. “After all that stress, you probably don’t even want to go out anymore,” he said kindly. “It’s alright. We can just go into the drawing room and you can play the piano and I can-”

Patrick stared at him. “But I sent a card saying we’d go,” he objected, reasonable. He glanced at Greta, and Pete had a horrible feeling that that one glance had included entire worlds of conspiracy he would never fathom. “It would be terribly bad _ton_ to back out now.”

“Rubbish,” Pete scoffed. “And I don’t care about _ton_ , bad or otherwise. Neither does Mikey.”

“I know Lord Michael’s position is secure in society,” Patrick said carefully. “But his wife’s is not. I hear she’s going to be at the party tonight. If you don’t turn up, everyone will assume that you stayed away because of her, and that will start all sorts of rumours, and it will be your fault if the poor lady is driven to penury.”

Pete stared at him. “Where do you hear these things?” he asked, amazed. “And why do you sound like a bad melodrama?”

Patrick shrugged, unabashed, buttoning up his waistcoat and adjusting his execrable cravat. “Bill is a fount of information, and he sent me a note when he heard we were going. Which we are. Shall we leave now, or do you want to delay a little longer?”

“Does Mr Trohman even know how to tie a cravat?” Pete wondered aloud, choosing not to dignify Patrick’s question with a response, and Patrick shot him a dagger-glare, glancing nervously in the mirror again.

“Stop stalling, my lord,” Greta told him, determinedly offering him his coat. “Your carriage is waiting for you, you’re both all dressed up. You’ll enjoy it when you get there.”

“My mother used to tell me that about Mrs Lascombe’s parties,” Pete said gloomily, accepting his coat, hat and stick from Greta.

“Your lady mother wasn’t always the best judge of what you found enjoyable,” Greta said absently, helping Patrick on with his coat.

“A fact for which I thank God every day,” Pete agreed, a little more cheerfully. If he had to go – and it appeared he did – at least he had Patrick with him. Perhaps he could just cling to Patrick all evening.

That wouldn’t set the gossip-mongers talking at all.

Greta opened the door, letting in the chilly early-April evening air. Without quite meaning to, Pete flinched.

“Enjoy your evening, gentlemen,” she told them sweetly, and exchanged another glance with Patrick.

“Oh, we will,” Patrick promised her, and ushered Pete out.

**

“My cravat will wilt in minutes,” Pete mourned to Patrick as they surrendered their outerwear to a couple of blank-faced servants on entering Mikey’s over-heated lodgings. “My cravat will wilt, and I will start to melt, and then you’ll have to console my sister over my untimely death.”

“And you said _I_ talked like I lived in a bad melodrama,” Patrick sighed. His expression was amused, though, as he took Pete’s arm and led him into the crowded ballroom, and Pete took some comfort from that. At least Patrick would probably have a good evening. “Come on. We’ll do our social duty, you can smile and make nice with Viscount Alburgh,” the idea that he was spending time with honest-to-God Viscounts who weren’t Bill still gave Patrick pause, “and Lord Michael, and then we’ll commandeer some champagne and mock everyone’s clothes – though how you’re going to mock anyone when you chose that waistcoat, while in your right mind and presumably sober, I have no idea.”

“I’ll manage,” Pete told him. The evening was looking up already.

Patrick dropped his arm as they came up to Mikey, resplendent in a blue waistcoat and a disconsolate expression. Pete missed it instantly.

“Mikey!” he said, instead of grabbing Patrick and begging him not to leave him. “Why so glum?”

“My guests of honour have gone missing,” Mikey sighed. “Hallo, Pete, Patrick. How are you this evening?”

“Delighted to be here,” Pete lied, and Mikey eyed him.

“I’m sure,” he said, desert-dry. “If you see Frank or Gerard, would you please tell them to stop shamelessly canoodling in dark corners and pretend to be sociable? There’s plenty of time for that after they actually get married. And if Mrs Iero hears I allowed her son to be despoiled days before his wedding, she’ll hurt me. I don’t want to be hurt, Pete.”

“Would you like me to go and look for them?” Patrick asked, amused.

Mikey shut his eyes for a long moment, which was his version of a wail of frustration. “Would you, please? That would be so kind.”

Pete glanced at Patrick – here was a man having a worse night than Pete, and that was oddly reassuring. Patrick nodded encouragingly, and Pete took Mikey’s arm. “Why don’t we find you a nice glass of ratafia, and somewhere to sit?” he said comfortingly. “Patrick will find your brother.”

“That would be nice,” Mikey said plaintively. “I’ve given parties before. And I’m not even the one getting married. I thought it would be easy.”

“Ah, but before your good lady was the one doing most of the arranging for an evening like this, wasn’t she?” Pete said shrewdly, nabbing a couple of glasses off a passing tray and handing one to Mikey, leading him over to a secluded sofa. “Where is she, by the way?”

Mikey didn’t meet Pete’s eyes, seating himself, and twirling the glass between his fingers. “I – behaved badly,” he said awkwardly. “To her. I’m surprised she’s even willing to be here.”

It had taken years on the subcontinent for Pete to come to terms with Mikey’s marriage. Now, safe in the knowledge that he had Patrick to come home to (even if only for a little while), the thought of Mikey’s wife didn’t even sting. “Then maybe she’s been better to you than you deserve,” he said quietly, sitting next to Mikey on the sofa, and sipping at his own drink. “But you can show her that you _can_ deserve it.” He paused, then added fairly, “and if you manage to sort your marriage out, everyone will stop saying that you’re having an affair with me. Even Patrick’s heard of it. Patrick! No man who dresses like Patrick has any right to be keeping up with the latest _on-dits_.”

Mikey smiled, a little unwillingly. “I should probably apologise to him,” he said, and didn’t elaborate, even though Pete waited, pointedly.

“What for?” he asked eventually, when it became clear that Mikey really wasn’t going to just out and tell him.

“Sending him after Gee and Frank,” Mikey said finally, and Pete got the impression that that wasn’t the whole truth. “It will probably shock his – ah,” he glanced at Pete, “delicate sensibilities.”

Pete couldn’t help himself: he sniggered. “Patrick doesn’t have any delicate sensibilities,” he said airily. “He just pretends. He won’t be shocked by whatever Frank and your brother have got up to.”

“You know him best, of course,” Mikey said, and there was definitely something going on under the blandly polite words, something that Pete wasn’t willing to touch with a barge-pole.

“Come on,” he said, standing and depositing his drink on a side-table. “Let’s go and find your lady wife. You can apologise to her properly somewhere quiet, and then maybe this evening won’t be so painful for you.” He smiled down at Mikey as his friend unfolded himself from his miserable hunch. “Apologies do a world of good, you know.”

“You’ve had more occasion to make them than me,” Mikey sniped, but he was smiling, just a little. “So I’ll have to trust your judgement.”

“You’d be the first,” Pete admitted. “But also the wisest. Let’s go.”

They only made it to the edge of the dance floor before Mikey stopped, one hand curling round Pete’s arm painfully tight. “I’ve found her,” he hissed, and Pete frowned, following Mikey’s gaze.

Lady Alicia was on the dance floor, and though she was pale, she was smiling, her eyes bright. There was defiance in the tilt of her chin – this was a lady who’d come prepared to face down any amount of pity tonight – but enjoyment in her smile.

And she was dancing with Patrick. Patrick, who appeared to be enjoying himself just as much, chatting to his dance-partner as though he had never known awkwardness in his life. 

For a moment, Pete felt as though he’d been tipped a leveller by Jackson himself. Then his common sense miraculously reasserted itself, and he began to grin. 

“Looks like someone stole a march on you,” he told Mikey, elbowing him slyly in the gut. “But he did his job. Look, your brother’s making a fool out of himself with his fiancé right now.” Gerard had never, ever been a good dancer, and Frank made up for his own complete lack of co-ordination with an admirable, if misguided, enthusiasm. They were a well-matched pair, but a menace to those around them.

“I wonder if he’d let me cut in?” Mikey murmured, eyes fixed on Patrick and Alicia.

“I wonder if _she_ would,” Pete retorted. “I wouldn’t leave yourself open to so public a rejection. We’ll find some champagne and you can give it to her at the end of the dance. Then Patrick and I will create a diversion, and you can slip away somewhere to let her rake you down in private.”

Mikey didn’t answer. He was still watching his wife dancing with Patrick, and Pete for once couldn’t read the expression on his face.

When the dance was done, Pete dragged Mikey over to Patrick and Alicia, without so much as glancing at the people he was barrelling past, depositing Mikey in front of Alicia and grinning widely at Patrick. 

“Nicely danced,” he said, and Patrick flushed a little, smiling back, and gesturing at Alicia.

“That was all my partner,” he explained. “I’m afraid she was leading.”

“You underestimate yourself, Mr Stump,” Alicia said, smiling at him. “And have you met Michael?” Mikey winced. “I’m sure you must have done, if you’ve spent any time with Pete.” It was Pete’s turn to flinch a little at that, glancing at Patrick to see whether he was picking up on the subtext of Alicia’s innocent remarks.

“We’ve met,” Patrick agreed, apparently not noticing the frigid atmosphere, smiling at Mikey. “I found your brother, Lord Michael. He and Mr Iero are around here somewhere-”

“We saw them a minute ago,” Pete said quickly. “Mikey, Lady Alicia, why don’t you see if you can find them?”

“What a wonderful idea,” Mikey agreed, and held his hand out to Alicia. Pete watched her notice that it was shaking. “Um. Would you do me the honour?”

“I was due to dance the next with Mr Stump,” Alicia said coolly, but gave him her hand. “So we had better find them quickly.” She smiled at Pete – she looked strangely pitying, and something in Pete baulked a little at that. “Perhaps you’d keep Mr Stump entertained for me, Pete,” she said, and held out her free hand to him. “It’s good to see you again.”

He bowed over her hand. “And you, Alicia,” he agreed, and she smiled. Then she was gone, pulling Mikey along behind her.

Pete let out an explosive breath, and handed Patrick the champagne he’d brought over. Patrick accepted it with a smile, steering Pete off the dance floor as the next set made itself up. 

“That was a very good thing you just engineered there,” he said, taking a sip of the champagne and pulling a face. 

“I hope so,” Pete said, downing his own glass. 

“Lord Michael did not behave well to his wife,” Patrick said quietly, setting the champagne down and clearly wishing he could shove his hands into his pockets. Pete bristled a little, wanting to come to Mikey’s defence, but not knowing enough of the details to have any right to do so.

He deflated when Patrick looked at him, eyebrow raised. “Mikey’s not always – I’m not making excuses for him,” he said slowly. “But he doesn’t always make good choices.”

“I’ve known people who make bad choices for themselves,” Patrick said lightly, and Pete genuinely couldn’t tell whether Patrick was talking about him. “But they have enough of a sense of fairness to apologise when they’re in the wrong.”

“And that’s what Mikey’s doing,” Pete said firmly. “You only have half the story, Patrick. And you don’t really know either of them. It wouldn’t be fair for you to make any assumptions.”

Patrick’s expression closed off a little, but he didn’t deny the truth of Pete’s remarks. “How right you are,” he agreed politely, and let the subject drop. Pete paused, and almost elaborated – almost apologised – but then Patrick was smiling at him, a little less open and perhaps fractionally less warm than before, but a real smile all the same, and the moment passed. “So, what now? I think the drawing room I had earmarked for us to colonise is in use now, so we might have to suffer the ballroom a little longer. What do you think?”

“I think you should dance with someone,” Pete said firmly. It wasn’t fair or kind of him to monopolise Patrick all evening – if he wasn’t supposed to be having an affair with Mikey, it would only be so long before the gossips really sank their teeth into his friendship with Patrick. The best and kindest thing he could do would be to let Patrick find someone else.

And they were in a ballroom full of other people.

It was a perfect opportunity, even if the very thought of it made Pete want to make terrible, terrible life choices all over again. If he let those thoughts have full rein, he’d be shipping himself off to India to rusticate, just like his parents had.

Patrick grinned. “Oh? And who do you think I should dance with, then?”

“Mr Bryar’s over there,” Pete pointed out, determined to do the right thing for once in his life. He glanced at Patrick, and was arrested by the look of sheer shock on Patrick’s face, chased by an expression of hurt. But then Patrick was smiling again, and Pete was left to wonder if he’d imagined it.

“Good idea,” he agreed, and bowed. “I’ll see you later, then?”

“I’ll come and get you before I leave,” Pete promised, washing down the rising lump of misery in his throat with a gulp of champagne.

It still hurt to watch Patrick leave.

**

Patrick headed across to Bob with a lingering sense of shock, rapidly souring into humiliation. He’d been so sure Pete had been about to ask him to dance, and he’d been looking forward to dancing with Pete – he couldn’t understand why Pete’s expression had closed off and he’d packed Patrick off to beg for a partner elsewhere.

“You’ve got a face like a wet weekend,” Bob told him as Patrick approached, offering him a rather wan smile of his own. “Mikey’s parties not to your taste?”

Only the memory of the last two times he’d got really drunk kept Patrick from grabbing a glass off one of the trays and downing it. “It’s a lovely party,” he said unconvincingly, and Bob snorted.

“It’s a cattle market,” he said disparagingly. “Masquerading as a celebration for those two.” He nodded at Gerard and Frank. “Do they look like men who want to be celebrating anything in public? No. People who are in love should stay at home, alone.” He tossed off his wine and handed the glass off to a servant. “Shall we dance, Stump? If I dance with you, I can report back to my mother with a clear conscience.”

Patrick glanced up at him, and had to smile. Bob had the air of a man making a great and unparalleled sacrifice, but he was smiling ruefully as he offered Patrick his hand. “Well,” he said, letting Bob pull him onto the dance floor for the country dance, “anything for your mama, of course.”

“I could have asked more nicely,” Bob admitted, taking his place in the set, opposite Patrick. “But some young people get Ideas, just from an invitation to dance, so I stopped trying to be nice. My invitations are plain and functional, just like me.”

Patrick grinned. No one could describe Pete as plain and functional, that was for sure, and just at this moment, that was a definite point in Bob’s favour.

**

Pete watched Patrick dance with Bob and forced himself not to react. He’d decided to do this. This was his choice. He could have monopolised Patrick all evening, but that wouldn’t have been fair – so he had only himself to blame if he didn’t like Patrick dancing with someone else.

In an effort to stop fixating on Patrick and Bob dancing a reel, he turned away and burrowed back into the crowd around the dance floor. Stopping next to the refreshments, he smiled at the lady next to him, and offered her a plate. 

“Can I get you an artichoke heart?” he asked politely, and she slanted him a quick, nervous look.

“Actually,” she said, clearly thrown a little off-balance, “I was just seeing whether they’d brought out the syllabubs yet. My mama has a longing for syllabub.”

That was something Pete really could help with. “I can find her one, if you’d like?” he offered, smiling a little wider. Here was a cast-iron excuse to leave the ballroom for a little while, and he intended to seize it with both hands. “I’m friends with Lord Michael, I’m sure I can find something for her.”

She frowned a little. “Do you know my mother, sir?” she asked, eyeing him again. 

“I don’t believe so,” Pete said thoughtfully. “Why don’t you introduce me to her? Will that be acquaintance enough to go and search out syllabub?”

“Um.” She dithered for a moment, then shrugged a little. “I don’t think I can. I don’t know you myself.”

“Remiss of me,” he said, and bowed. “Peter, Lord Highleyton, at your service, ma’am.”

She curtseyed automatically, eyes huge but modestly downcast. “I’m Anne Templeton, my lord. I, er. Do you really want to meet my mother?” Miss Templeton was watching him nervously out of the corner of his eye, and sometimes Pete really did find it irritating that his reputation always preceded him.

“I’d be charmed, Miss Templeton,” he said gallantly, rather than dwell on her startled reaction to finding out who he was. Instead, he offered her his arm, every bit the gentleman his father had despaired of him ever being. “Lead on.”

**

Having met Mrs Templeton and got her syllabub from a bemused but unsurprised servant, Pete succeeded in tempting Miss Templeton into making up a set for the quadrille, only to find – to his dismay – that the other members of their set were to be Patrick and Bob. 

“I thought you might be interested in making up a four, Highleyton,” Bob said, giving Pete an uncomfortably knowing look, while Patrick shifted next to him and smiled at Anne.

“Pete,” he said, without looking at him, “why don’t you introduce us to the lady?”

“Oh, of course,” Pete said, wondering if he sounded as chagrined as he felt. “Miss Templeton, this is Mr Robert Bryar, formerly of the Light Dragoons, and Mr Patrick Stump.”

She curtseyed awkwardly, eyeing Patrick, then smiling suddenly. “You made Cecy Straithcarn furious at Mr Blackinton’s ball,” she said, rather shyly, but with a wicked edge to her smile. “I think we have to be friends after that.”

Inexplicably, Patrick flushed, and flickered a glance at Pete; suddenly, Pete was filled with a burning desire to know just how Patrick had enraged Cecy Straithcarn, whoever that was. “I lost my temper,” he mumbled, and Anne laughed. 

“Cecy Straithcarn could make a saint lose his temper,” she confided, and it just figured that even Pete’s dance-partners preferred Patrick to him.

It didn’t help that Pete much preferred Patrick to his dance-partner, however amiable she was.

“Shall we take our places?” Bob asked, offering Patrick his arm, and raising an eyebrow at Pete, with a grin. “I would hate to miss out on the quadrille.”

Pete wondered whether he could feasibly step on Bob’s feet during the dance. 

**

Patrick hoped that Pete didn’t know his dance-partner that well - the last thing he wanted was for the embarrassing story of his altercation with Cecy Straithcarn to come out, let alone in the middle of Mikey Way’s ball.

Luckily the dance began, and conversation was over. Unfortunately, the quadrille had always made Patrick feel like a fool - there was far too much bowing and preening for his comfort. Judging by Bob’s slightly agonised expression, he felt much the same.

Pete, of course, was in his element, Patrick thought resentfully, smiling at Miss Templeton and bowing and spinning away as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

Though, now Patrick came to think of it, he probably didn’t. Pete wasn’t the one who had an awkward _tendre_ for one of his friends.

He stepped forwards to take Bob’s hands, and Bob smirked down at him.

“Could you stop glowering at me?” he asked, one eyebrow raised. “You’re the angriest dance-partner I’ve ever had.”

Patrick immediately pasted a wide, false smile onto his face. “I’m not angry,” he said insincerely, consciously remembering not to glower at Pete out of the corner of his eye.

“Of course you aren’t,” Bob said, indecently knowing. “You and my lord Highleyton over there are a positive picture of enjoyment.”

Patrick glanced at Pete, who seemed to be in raptures at the opportunity to dance with Miss Templeton.

And he was very happy for them, Patrick told himself crossly.

“I’m very happy for them,” he told Bob.

Bob gave him an odd look. “They haven’t had the banns read yet, Stump,” he said carefully.

Pete was bending his head to listen to what Miss Templeton was saying, with every indication of pleased attentiveness. 

“No,” Patrick agreed, unsure why he felt quite so glum. “Of course not.”

Bob was looking incredulous, and Patrick took a moment to be grateful that the steps of the dance took them apart. Unfortunately, it was for another round of bowing: this time, him to Pete. When Pete took his hand, Patrick pulled just a little bit too hard, and tried not to snigger when Pete stumbled.

“Sorry,” he said, lying merrily through his teeth. He felt a little bit gleeful at Pete’s surprise, as he turned to bow to Miss Templeton.

On separate sides of the quadrille, Pete was watching Patrick, a tiny frown on his face. Patrick gave him a mega-watt smile and skipped away to perform his next part of the dance.

He came forward to take Miss Templeton’s hands, smiling more sincerely at her. “I do remember you,” he said. “You were the young lady who called Miss Straithcarn a spiteful cat.”

She flushed a little, and smiled, awkward. “That was an awkward turn of phrase,” she said, embarrassed. “I hadn’t meant for anyone else to hear me.”

“As you said, the lady would try the patience of a saint,” Patrick said easily.

Miss Templeton laughed, and they separated again.

Patrick didn’t glance at Pete as Pete and Miss Templeton took hands again to move up the line of dancers, moving round him and Bob to take their new places. He didn’t look at Pete when he and Bob followed them. He barely looked at Pete when it was their turn to dance together, offering him only a bland smile and a raised eyebrow.

“I’m so enjoying dancing with Bob,” he said brightly. “It was so nice of you to suggest it. Just like going to parties with my mama.”

Even Not Looking at Pete, Patrick saw him wince.

“Patrick,” he began, and Patrick pulled away, following the steps, bowing to Pete and stepping back in line. It was a relief to bow to Bob, and finish the dance.

Before either Pete or Patrick could say anything, Bob was offering his arm to Miss Templeton.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, and she took his arm willingly.

“Yes, please.” A flicker of a glance told Patrick that Miss Templeton had picked up on rather more than Patrick would have liked. 

The two of them headed off towards the drinks, leaving Pete and Patrick in awkward silence.

“Are you alright?” Pete asked warily, and Patrick resisted the urge to scuff his shoes along the floor.

“I’m fine,” he said shortly. “Hadn’t you better go looking for Lord Michael?”

“Um, no?” Pete said slowly. “He’s making up with his wife. He doesn’t need me there - in fact, I’m the last person he should have there. That would be just - that would be very, very awkward.”

“Hmm,” Patrick said, by no means pleased to be reminded of Pete’s Casanova past at this moment. 

“Well, would you like some ratafia?” Pete asked, clearly beginning to be a little irritated by Patrick’s attitude, and abruptly Patrick felt bad.

“Um. No, thank you.”

“Right, well.” Pete paused, awkward, then cleared his throat. “I’m going to go and-”

“No, wait,” Patrick said quickly, then nearly swallowed his own tongue trying to get the words out quickly enough. “Would you like to dance?”

Pete paused again, then offered him a slow smile. “Is _that_ what this is all about?” he said, and then smiled, wide and bright, honestly happy in a way he hadn’t looked for days. For some reason, he looked at ease for the first time since he’d seen Patrick dancing with Alicia Way. “Mr Stump, I would love to dance.” He slanted a wicked grin at Patrick. “But can we get a drink first? I think I’m dying. And my cravat _has_ wilted.”

**

Pete did some re-evaluating after Mikey Way’s ball. His own feelings and reactions at the ball made it quite clear the trying to set Patrick up with someone else was not an option, which meant – well, he wasn’t quite sure what it meant. It meant that match-making wasn’t in his foreseeable future, and that was probably all to the good; he’d enjoyed being on the other end of the schemes, but it would have been easier if it hadn’t been Patrick he was scheming for.

He wasn’t quite willing to put a name to whatever it was that was going on between him and Patrick. Pete hadn’t thought in terms of marriage since his disastrous romance with Mikey, and he wasn’t willing to get burnt twice, still less when he wasn’t quite sure of where he stood. But it was something to bear in mind.

Patrick, thankfully, seemed unaware of Pete’s quandary. As far as Patrick was concerned, Pete knew, they were just getting their friendship back on track, and that was all to the good. It meant Pete could still spend time with him without any awkward expectations hanging around – they’d had enough awkward expectations to last a lifetime. It was probably a little creepy, Pete thought ruefully, but then, he’d never been a stranger to creepy behaviour, and he wasn’t about to distance himself now. Patrick was still easy in Pete’s company- easier than he had ever been before, in fact, despite Pete’s woeful attempts at match-making.

If Pete had had any doubts that Patrick felt secure in their friendship, they were laid to rest one evening in the drawing room. With no parties to go to, they’d settled back into their normal routine of books and music and comfortable silence. Pete had developed a habit of lingering over his port just to get a chance to hear Patrick play, confident without an audience, knowing that the moment he opened the drawing room door to join him, Patrick would stop immediately and look incredibly shifty, as though the whole house hadn’t been able to hear the music. One evening, about two nights after Mikey’s party, Pete came into the drawing room to find Patrick sitting at the piano with a look of intense frustration on his face. Of course, as soon as he saw Pete, Patrick looked guilty and attempted to shuffle away from the piano as discreetly as possible.

“Please don’t,” Pete said hastily. “Don’t stop on my account. If you’d rather I went elsewhere-”

“No! It’s your house.” Patrick looked torn. He clearly wanted to stay with the piano and just as clearly didn’t want Pete to hear what he’d been playing. Finally, he took a deep breath - evidently steeling himself for something - and resettled himself at the piano. “Which sounds better?” he asked, and Pete, not for the first time, wished he’d applied himself more to his music. Patrick was playing a series of chords that both sounded absolutely fantastic, and Pete had _no idea_ which was better.

Deciding to be wily, rather than prove himself a musical idiot, he offered Patrick his most engaging smile. “Well, it’s difficult to make an accurate judgement until I’ve heard the whole piece,” he said, innocent as a May lamb.

“Oh?” Patrick said, deeply suspicious.

“Yes,” Pete said, sincere, seating himself near the piano and smiling hopefully.

Patrick gave him a long, searching look before nodding stiffly. “Just… don’t expect too much, alright? It’s still quite new.”

Pete had no doubts whatsoever, but promised to be kind all the same. He didn’t really think kindness would be necessary. Keeping his rapturous applause to the bare minimum would be hard enough.

Patrick still looked unsure but put his fingers to the keys. What followed was, to Pete’s untutored ear, a masterpiece. But Patrick stopped, and replayed a phrase, with a fractionally different ending, a tiny frown on his face.

“I can’t decide,” he said, frowning down at the keys. “Which sounds better to you?”

Pete panicked; he had no idea. “Either?”

Patrick gave him a deeply unimpressed look. “Thanks, that’s so helpful,” he said sarcastically.

Pete pulled himself together. “Alright,” he said carefully. “It depends what you’re trying to say. The first one is more - hopeful? The second is a little… I don’t know. Melancholy. Which do you want it to be?” He thought for a second. “And the second one sounds exactly like Beethoven, if that helps to sway you.”

Patrick pulled a face. “Really? I like Beethoven, but I’m not sure I want to write like him.”

“Well, the first one’s much more your own. At least,” Pete corrected himself hastily, remembering that he wasn’t supposed to have been eavesdropping on Patrick’s piano-playing. “it doesn’t sound like anyone I’ve ever heard of.”

Patrick nodded. “If you like the first one better, that’s good enough for me,” he said firmly, and Pete felt a little winded. 

“Really? I’m not known for my musical - ah. Judgement. I wouldn’t trust me.”

“But I do,” Patrick said, and smiled. 

Pete smiled, and didn’t protest when Patrick stood up from the piano, already scribbling down that sequence of chords. He picked up a book himself, and pretended to read without seeing a word.

Patrick trusted him. 

**

The night of the Sefton’s ball, Patrick and Greta had none of the difficulties they’d had getting Pete out the door for Mikey’s party. If anything, Pete seemed keen to go, though he was far more interested in how Patrick was planning to spend the evening than his own night.

Patrick was also a little preoccupied, though for different reasons. He’d asked Pete to dance before, he thought, although the last time had been with a very bad grace. But that had always been in the heat of the moment, and this time he had something a little more pre-meditated in mind. They hadn’t been invited to supper at the Sefton’s ball, and Patrick brooded over how to phrase his invitation for the whole of supper, and while they were in the carriage on the way to Sefton House.

“Alright,” Pete said. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Patrick said unconvincingly, and tried a weak smile.

Pete looked accordingly sceptical. “You’re not planning to steal another tray of sweets, are you? Because I don’t mind, but if you get caught, I will pretend I’ve never met you before. And if you don’t share, I will grass you up.”

“I should never have let Victoria tell you about that.”

“No,” Pete agreed, cheerful. “But now she knows, and I know, and the Seftons will know if you step out of line. So, out with it. What’s wrong?”

Patrick fiddled with his cuffs. “Nothing bad, honestly. I’m not planning to make away with any of the food tonight, since you ask,” he added. “I just. Wondered if you - had any room on your dance card tonight.”

There was a long, long pause, the only sound the carriage rattling over the cobblestones, and when Patrick looked up, Pete was grinning. “I don’t have a dance card,” he said, very slowly, “and neither do you. But if I did, there’d always be room on it for you.”

“You could have just said ‘yes’,” Patrick said, ruffled. “You’re not allowed to mock me. I was trying to be nice.”

“And you’re very good at being nice,” Pete said kindly. “And I’d love to dance with you. I mean, I’m assuming that’s what you’re _really_ asking.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Patrick said, relieved, slumping back into the carriage-cushions. 

“Alright, Mr Stump, first and last dance are mine. I’d say the supper dance too, but I’ll probably have to dance that with some pert miss out of the schoolroom, or all the mamas will start plotting your death.”

“It’s your modesty that attracts me most,” Patrick said, without thinking, and Pete brayed with laughter.

“And my ravishing good looks, surely?”

“That too, naturally,” Patrick agreed, grinning a little. He almost forgot to be nervous when the carriage pulled up at the Seftons’.

The ballroom was the same as every other ballroom Patrick had been in in the last few weeks - though he was a little startled to remember that he actually had places to compare this to. It was brightly lit and very pretty, but just as hot and crowded and noisy as all the other Society balls. And, as always, someone called Pete’s name. Patrick drifted away a little, looking for someone he knew until Pete returned. He stopped, startled, when Pete grabbed his sleeve.

“No you don’t,” Pete told him cheerfully. “I’m not going to risk losing you in this crush, no matter how hard you try. First dance is mine, remember?”

He grinned at Patrick, who smiled back and shook his sleeve out of Pete’s grip. “Damn,” he said blandly. “I was going to hide behind the curtains until you forgot about me.”

“No dice, Mr Stump,” Pete muttered out of the corner of his mouth as they approached Pete’s hailer. “You’re mine for the evening. And if you forget, I’m sure Lady Sefton would be intrigued to discover it was you who made off with her dessert tray all those years ago.”

He blinked innocently and Patrick glared at him. “You are a cruel and unusual man.”

“It’s been said,” Pete agreed. “Mrs Maxwell, how good to see you.”

Patrick could tell from a glance that Mrs Maxwell was one of the Society ladies the word ‘formidable’ might have been created for. It was something in the way she held her fan like a weapon. He took an instinctive step behind Pete.

“You as well.” Mrs Maxwell gave Pete an appraising look. “I must say, it’s nice to see you back in the country, though I suppose you must miss it. My father travelled extensively through India - he always spoke very highly of it.”

The conversation turned to India and Patrick, having nothing to contribute, let his concentration wander; he’d avoided Society for so long, he’d forgotten how stunning it could be - the food, the brilliant colours, the music. It was like a living picture.

He was brought back down to earth by Pete’s voice saying, “Of course. May I present my good friend Patrick Stump?”

Patrick bowed. “Ma’am.”

“Stump.” Mrs Maxwell narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Any relation to the Herefordshire Stumps?”

“He is the Herefordshire Stump,” Pete informed her cheerily and Patrick elbowed him.

“I see. I haven’t seen you at any of the recent balls.” Mrs Maxwell eyed him beadily. It wasn’t quite an accusation.

“I,” Patrick hunted around for an expression that would suitably describe his self-imposed exile. “I’ve been away.”

Inexplicably, her expression softened. “Of course. My nephew was in the Guards - he was sorry to hear about your brother. Kevin, wasn’t it? My condolences.”

Patrick swallowed. Even after so long, it was painful. “Thank you,” he said stiffly, feeling his expression go wooden.

Luckily, Mrs Maxwell appeared to be one of the wilier Society matrons and, scenting awkwardness, changed the subject. “Peter, if you’d do me the great service of dancing with Isobel this evening, I’d be grateful.”

Pete, who’d been watching their exchange in thoughtful silence, smiled. “Surely you’re not thinking of a match, ma’am?”

Mrs Maxwell waved her fan dismissively. “No, no. But her beau keeps dithering over the proposal and I’m hoping some competition will stir him into action.”

Pete nodded. “I’ll put my evil reputation to good use - that is, if Mr Stump can spare me. Patrick?”

“What?” Half of Patrick’s mind had still been on Kevin.

“Can you spare a couple of dances? For a good cause?”

Patrick tried to smile and mostly succeeded. “Oh, if it’s for a good cause, certainly.”

Mrs Maxwell was watching them with an interested expression Patrick had come to be wary of. “How did you two meet?”

Patrick sighed inwardly, trying to come up with a lie that would do the least damage.

“Over a game of cards, ma’am,” Pete said lightly and turned to grin at Patrick. “I’ve been corrupting him ever since.”

Patrick glanced over at Mrs Maxwell to see what she made of it, but her expression remained pleasantly neutral. “I’d expect no less. A pleasure to meet you, Mr Stump. Peter, don’t forget Isobel.”

She nodded to them and swept away. Patrick breathed again, inexplicably feeling as though he’d passed some kind of test.

Pete touched his shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asked quietly and Patrick nodded. Pete paused a second. “What happened? To your brother, I mean.”

“He died. During the war,” Patrick said shortly. A ball was the last place he wanted to talk about Kevin. 

Pete seemed to recognise a closed subject. “Well I,” he announced with a visible change in tempo, “could use a drink. Want one?”

Patrick dragged himself into the present and raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you have to go and perform a public service?” he asked.

Pete waved a hand. “I’m a saint, it’s true,” he said cheerfully, throwing an arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “But I suppose I could take some time off from my heavenly duties to mingle with the common folk.”

“You’re too good to us,” Patrick told him dryly. “Don’t feel you have to prolong your stay among us regular mortals, really.” Pete pulled a tragic face and Patrick snorted, accepting the glass of lemonade and raising his eyebrows when he saw an identical one in Pete’s hand. “You’re not drinking?”

Pete avoided his eyes. “I’m still not one hundred percent well,” he said evasively. “Drinking… wouldn’t be the best idea.”

Patrick wanted to ask more, but Pete hadn’t questioned him about Kevin, so he returned the  
favour and let a clearly unpopular subject drop. “Alright,” he said equably. “Shall we join the next dance?”

Pete offered him a grateful smile and nodded. “Let me down my drink, and we’ll be off,” he agreed. “I think it’s going to be The Town Square – I love that one.”

Patrick eyed him warily. “Is that the one where I have to pretend to like everyone?”

“Patrick, it’s a ball. You have to pretend to like everyone, even if you hate them. _Especially_ if you hate them. But you won’t have to interact with anyone other than me.”

Another doubt assailed Patrick. “Does it have complicated steps?”

“Why? We haven’t been drinking. Come on, let’s go.”

Patrick, dragged along behind Pete, made an inarticulate noise of protest, and Pete ignored him, chivvying him into one of the sets and grinning encouragingly at him. Finally, helpless in the face of the opening chords and Pete’s hopeful smile, Patrick threw up his free hand and handed his drink off to a server.

Pete beamed, mouthing ‘first and last dance, remember?’ as they bowed to each other and watched as the first couple skipped gaily across the opening to clasp hands. Blindly, Patrick wondered what he’d let himself in for.

Ten minutes later, they staggered off the dance floor, wheezing a little.

“I’m getting too old for this,” Patrick said, gratefully accepting a drink and leaning against a convenient pillar.

Pete downed his lemonade and glared at him. “You’re what, twenty three, twenty two?”

“Twenty three,” Patrick admitted, sipping at his drink.

“Then shut up,” Pete told him firmly. “You’re young and in your prime and should be raring for another dance. Maybe with the charming young lady next to me – she’s very free with her hands.”

Patrick stared at him. “What, really?”

“Oh yes,” Pete said, blasé, grinning at Patrick’s shock. “She definitely got in a grope or two when we did the circle.”

Patrick stared some more. Pete looked more indulgent than put-out, but such things were unheard of, in Patrick’s experience. In his experience, balls were places of stilted propriety and unrelenting tedium, not places delicately-reared young ladies used to gain sexual experience and knowledge of the male anatomy.

Pete, however, had moved on. “Oh, look, it’s Mikey! And Alicia! And Bryar! Look, Patrick,” Pete shot him a thoroughly evil grin. “All your friends are here.”

“I have more friends than that,” Patrick protested, to no avail – Pete had already gone, and was dragging Patrick behind him.

“You know, Bryar,” he said, butting into the conversation without so much as a by-your-leave, “for all you profess to hate balls, I see you at them more often than any other person I know.”

Bob fixed him in an even look, but Pete was undaunted. “My mother’s in town for the Season.” Everyone else in their little circle nodded sympathetically, but Patrick was at a loss, and couldn’t quite suppress his questioning noise. Bob took pity on him. “Either I’m here or at home with her, and if I’m at home with her she’ll be asking me why I’m not here. So I turn up for five minutes, and then I go to my club.” He offered Patrick a small smile.

Pete, ever-tactful, butted in. “Club? I didn’t know you had a club.”

“It’s not precisely a club,” Bob cavilled modestly. “It’s what I call ‘walking the streets of London until my mother goes to bed’. I street-walk more than actual street-walkers.”

“With your figure, you’d make an excellent living,” Pete said sincerely, and Patrick drove an unforgiving elbow into his midriff. 

“One tries,” Bob dead-panned. 

Aware that they were leaving out half the circle, Patrick turned to the other two, who had made no effort to involve themselves in the conversation, choosing instead to murmur asides to each other. They weren’t precisely love-struck newly-weds, but there was a certain softness to their expressions that said an understanding had definitely been reached – for the second time.

“Lord Michael, Lady Alicia,” he said, smiling at them, and Lady Alicia beamed at him.

“Mr Stump,” she said, and curtseyed. “How nice to see you again – particularly after last time. Pete,” she added, in a grudging aside.

“Alicia,” Pete said gently, something sad in his expression, and there was a mind-numbingly awkward pause.

Finally, Bob came to the rescue. “Spencer’s here somewhere,” he announced, apparently a man driven to the last resort. Everyone leapt gratefully onto the subject change.

“And where Spencer is, Ryan is,” Pete said knowingly.

“Probably,” Bob agreed, his careless tone belied by his sudden, incredible flush. “He said something about going to the library earlier. He’s probably got lost and ended up in the garden.”

“Oooh, so you’ve talked to him!” Pete crowed, and Patrick sighed, shutting his eyes for a moment. He could tell Pete was going to go too far.

Bob was unmoved, but still red. “I came here with Spencer,” he said, impassive. “And Ryan. We shared a carriage.”

“Just a carriage, or did you share a moment or two?” Pete asked gleefully, and Patrick felt moved to intervene.

“Pete,” he said, but Pete was in full steam, and Mikey and Alicia – watching avidly – were no help.

“I’m sure Mr Ross would be very accommodating-”

“I’m so sorry,” Patrick interrupted quickly. “Lord Highleyton and I were on our way to investigate the drinks table. We’ll be right back.”

Pete gave him a questioning glance, but Patrick had clamped his hand round Pete’s arm, and was already towing him away. When he glanced back, the group had already closed ranks again, apparently to gossip animatedly, probably about him. He flushed, and tightened his grip on Pete’s sleeve.

He dragged him into an alcove, and glared at him. “That,” he said, measured, “was not appropriate.”

Pete grinned at him. “Patrick, you’ve never seen me be properly inappropriate.”

“You can get worse?” Patrick asked, torn between horror and morbid curiosity.

Pete’s grin became a smirk. “Oh, with the things we got up to, Mikey and I will never be invited back to some houses,” he said airily, and Patrick felt a little as though Pete had struck him.

“Oh,” he said, deflating, the wind taken firmly out of his sails. “You and – and Lord Michael. I mean – of course. I-”

Pete evidently caught his downcast look, however hurriedly Patrick tried to smooth it off his face, and frowned. “You didn’t know? But _everyone_ knows. I thought- I was sure you knew.”

Patrick felt wretched. “Of course I knew,” he said, straining for a normal tone. “But – objectively, and – but it’s none of my business.” He could feel himself digging the hole, but didn’t seem able to stop. “And you’re – you are – I mean, it’s not like I have any _right_ to – it’s-”

“Over,” Pete said quickly, when Patrick gave him an opening. “It’s in the past. I mean, he’s married now, even I wouldn’t stoop that low. Whatever Alicia might think.” He seemed oddly intense. “And there’s – Mikey and I aren’t anything but friends anymore. Good friends. And once we were more, but that’s over.” He smiled at Patrick. “It took me a very long time in India to be able to admit that, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. Not at all.”

“Oh. Good,” Patrick nodded, not quite sure why he was so very relieved.

“And besides,” Pete said, his gaze very direct, “I’m a traditionalist. Strictly one infatuation at a time.”

“Oh.” 

For a long moment, they gazed at each other in silence, and Patrick almost thought Pete might say something more, as the silence grew and seemed to block out the sound of the people around them. But Pete dropped his eyes and stepped away. Suddenly the noise of the ballroom broke through their bubble, and Patrick jumped a little. “You should – go and find Isobel,” he said lamely. “I’m going to see if Gabe’s here.”

Pete nodded. “Alright. Send him my regards – but not too many, or he’ll get complacent. And remember,” he flashed Patrick a grin. “Last dance is mine.”

“I’ll remember,” Patrick nodded, and Pete left him in the alcove to wonder precisely what had just happened.

**

Pete found Patrick an hour or so later, with a very drunk Bill in his lap and a put-upon expression on his face.

“Pete!” Bill crowed, sloshing punch over Patrick’s cravat, probably unintentionally.

“Does your husband know you’re here?” Pete asked, smiling down at them as Patrick put his arms round Bill’s waist to stop his friend from sliding inelegantly onto the floorboards.

“The question is,” Bill said, with the admirable diction of the truly foxed, “does your intended know _you’re_ here?”

Patrick looked up sharply and Pete sighed. “I don’t have an intended,” he said with a sigh. “We’re just friends. Patrick, are you alright?”

“Please find Gabe,” Patrick said, half-amused and half-desperate. “He’s going to compromise me and pass out. Or pass out and compromise me. Or pass out while compromising me. Either way, I end up compromised with a comatose Bill.”

Pete laughed. “Well, we can’t have that. I’ll find Gabe. Where is he?”

“Hallo!” Gabe carolled gleefully, appearing with two further glasses of punch. “You called?”

“Take your husband home, he’s being dreadful, and he’s making my Patrick uncomfortable.”

Gabe’s eyes lit up. “ _Your_ Patrick?”

“Slip of the tongue,” Pete said wearily. He was getting tired of explaining his relationship with Patrick.

Gabe’s grin could have committed sexual harassment locked in a very small room all by itself. “Oh, I bet you’d like to slip him some-”

“No,” Pete said firmly, holding up a finger, and glancing over to see whether Patrick had heard. Thankfully, Bill had decided to do some exploring of his own, and Patrick literally had his hands full keeping his modesty intact. Gabe was smiling indulgently. “Give me that.” He swiped one of the glasses of punch from Gabe and downed it, handing him the empty glass. “Now extricate Patrick and we’ll be on our way.”

Gabe bowed extravagantly, sloshing punch everywhere. “Your wish is my command. William! We mustn’t touch what isn’t ours.”

“Hey,” Patrick protested, mildly offended. Bill had somehow managed to get a tentacle hand underneath his cravat, and had left it there while he pouted at Gabe.

“I mean, you are your very own self, and thus not me, which means Billy isn’t supposed to touch you unless he’s cleared it with me. And we have had this discussion about you, and we haven’t cleared it, so William, heel.”

“’m not a dog,” Bill said indignantly, slithering out of Patrick’s lap all the same, and slinking over to Gabe with a little less than his usual grace. Since, in Pete’s considered opinion, Bill was at least ninety percent alcohol at that point, his performance was nevertheless impressive.

“Alright, you two, bugger off,” Pete said cheerfully, ushering them away. “Patrick and I are leaving soon, and he owes me a dance.”

As one, Gabe and Bill cooed, and Pete glared at them.

Gabe held up one hand – the other was supporting Bill. “We wouldn’t dream of standing in your way,” he said and grinned in a frankly suggestive manner that Pete didn’t appreciate.

Patrick, however, pulled a face. “I know I promised you a dance,” he murmured as they made their way to the dance floor, “but I’ve had Bill Beckett plastered to me for the last ten minutes and I am _boiling_.”

Pete grinned. “Fair enough. Do you want to go outside?”

“ _Please_ ,” Patrick said fervently. “Is there a balcony or something? Anything?”

“I think there’s a balcony through here,” Pete said, guiding Patrick with a hand low on his back. “We’ll get you cooled off, then we’ll dance and then we’ll go home.”

“Thank you,” Patrick said, smiling round at him. “I’m not used to this giddy social whirl.”

“It’s not really all it’s cracked up to be,” Pete said, and Patrick nudged him.

“You’re being glum again,” he said, and Pete managed to smile, ushering Patrick out onto the balcony and hoping no one had seen them go.

Patrick went straight to the balustrade and leant his hands on it, looking out over the gardens, taking a couple of deep breaths. “Oh, that’s so much better,” he said, in tones of deep relief, and Pete had to smile. 

“The night air is very bad for you,” Pete said sententiously, and Patrick grinned.

“I know – sinful, isn’t it,” he said, in tones of deep irony. “All those bad humours and licentious thoughts.”

Pete felt as though he was floundering out of his depth. “Have you been drinking?” he asked, suspicious.

Patrick looked shifty. “I may have drunk Bill’s punch,” he admitted. “But only to stop him drinking it!”

“I see,” Pete said, smiling back, and coming over to join Patrick at the balustrade. “Pretty tonight, isn’t it?” he said aimlessly, and Patrick nodded, looking out over the dark gardens.

“Very,” he agreed quietly. “D’you know, I think I prefer the quiet to the ballroom.”

“So do I,” Pete said thoughtfully. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, sometimes I love it – the noise and the chatter and the people. But sometimes I just want to be alone with someone I – I trust.”

Patrick smiled up at him, touched. “Thanks,” he said softly.

Pete smiled back. “It’s just, with you, the quiet doesn’t seem so loud,” he said, and Patrick’s smile broadened into a grin.

“I have no idea what that means, but I choose to believe it’s a good thing, so – thank you? I think?”

“It is,” Pete said and Patrick stepped closer.

“I, um,” he looked embarrassed, and even in the dim light, Pete could tell he was flushing. He saw Patrick’s eyes dart to his mouth, and his heart kicked up a notch, “this might not be the right time…”

“Yeah,” Pete breathed, and slid closer, almost without realising. Patrick was looking up at him, eyes wide in the gloom, and Pete couldn’t help it. He dropped his head, and-

“Lord Highleyton!”

Pete’s reaction wasn’t even voluntary. In one movement, he’d shoved Patrick away from him – hopefully far enough into the shadows – and turned to look out of the garden, pretending he was alone and hadn’t even heard his name.

He didn’t know the woman calling his name, but judging by her indignantly-quivering ostrich feather, she wasn’t one of his fans.

Luckily, Patrick had read his mind, and had made good his escape, darting behind the woman and into the ballroom, quick enough that she didn’t see his face, but not so quickly that she didn’t notice him. 

“What is the meaning of this, sir?” she demanded, and Pete turned to face her. “What are you doing, alone, out here, with someone – someone-“ she clearly failed to find a suitable adjective for Patrick, and settled rather lamely on, “else?!”

“If I’m alone,” Pete said slowly, “Surely I can’t be with someone else?” She gave him a gimlet-eyed glare, and Pete wondered dimly which of her children he’d spurned.

“Your reputation alone is enough to ruin someone,” she snapped, and he frowned, briefly confused. “Don’t you know who you are?!”

Pete paused, then mentally shrugged and offered her his best rakish smile. “Me? Peter Wentz, fifth Marquess of Highleyton? And you think I’d be alone out here, with an unchaperoned young man? With my reputation?” His smile widened slowly, and he bowed a little to her. “Well, of course. Lucky me.” He winked and moved towards the French doors as she swelled with indignation.

His dramatic exit was somewhat stymied by the curtain, which quivered as he went past, and he automatically checked his gait. 

Slowly, Patrick emerged from behind the curtain, killing himself laughing. 

“You ruined my exit,” Pete said, put out, and Patrick choked a little on his giggles.

“I’m sorry, did you want to ruin a few more reputations while you were out there? I could probably find you an unchaperoned young man or three to despoil.”

Before Pete could say something disastrous about there being only one unchaperoned young man he had any interest in despoiling, his accuser reappeared back at his side, fan a-quiver.

“Do the parents of that young man know where he was?” she demanded.

“I doubt it,” Pete said, unconcerned. “And I doubt very much that it would be any business of yours. Mr Stump, would you go and see what dance they’re about to call? I believe I owe you a dance.”

The matron’s bosom swelled with repressed rage. “And does _that_ young man know what you were about out there?” she demanded, pointing her fan at Patrick’s retreating back.

Pete waited a few seconds to ensure that Patrick was out of earshot, before rounding on the woman. “Let me make this perfectly clear, madam,” he said, with admirable restraint. “If you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, but most particularly Mr Stump, I will make you regret it for the rest of your life.” He gave her the wide, empty smile he used with people he despised. “You know who I am – you know I can do it. If you spread this story, I will.” He stepped closer to her. “Make no mistake, I can do it. And if I hear this story from anyone’s lips but yours, I will positively enjoy destroying you.” He bowed a little to her. “Good evening, madam.”

She dropped a faltering curtsey. “Lord Highleyton,” she quavered, and he turned away, disappearing back into the crowd.

Perhaps, he thought to himself, it had been an overreaction. But while _she_ was stupid, anyone else hearing the story would immediately assume the young man in question had been Patrick, and Patrick’s reputation would be ruined. Pete would sacrifice a great deal more for Patrick than one over-officious society biddy.

By the time he found Patrick again, he was all smiles.

“One last dance, and then home, I believe,” he said, and took Patrick’s hand, reassured as Patrick squeezed back, smiling at him.

“Please,” he agreed, and Pete led him into the dance with a light heart.

**

Around the middle of April, London was hit by a heatwave; a swelling heat descended on the city, enveloping everybody in sticky, clinging humidity. It was inescapable: every house and pavement trapped the heat until the whole city radiated it.

At number 6, Brunswick Square, Pete lay on the drawing room floor in nothing but his shirtsleeves and breeches, groaning quietly to himself. Just _breathing_ was too much effort today. He could feel the sweat prickling down his spine whenever he moved.

“Greta!” he yelled.

There was a beat of silence and then the door swung open. “None of your odd requests today, sir,” Greta said tiredly. “It’s too hot.” She eyed the open windows. “I don’t think that’ll help. You’re just letting all the cool air out.”

She moved across the room to shut them, but Pete sat up, shaking his head frantically. “No, don’t. There’s a breeze!”

“But it’s a hot breeze.”

“Still a breeze.” Pete slumped back down, eyes shut. “We don’t have any ice, do we?”

Greta raised her eyebrows. “No? And if we had, I’d have eaten it all, so you still wouldn’t have had any.”

Pete groaned miserably.

“Was that all, sir?”

He waved a languid hand and heard the door click shut behind him.

He hadn’t seen Patrick all morning, he thought, stretching out his arms and legs to find the coolest bit of carpet. It was possible he could have gone out, but with the arrival of the heat, most of Society had left London, and the city was deserted. Bill and Gabe had stayed, but Pete wasn’t sure anything short of a marauding army could drive the Felsons out into the country.

He supposed Patrick could have gone for a walk, but no sensible person would go out in this weather, and Patrick was generally quite sensible.

He was about to call Greta again, purely out of spite, but the door swung open and he opened his eyes.

Patrick stood in the doorway, looking about as uncomfortable as Pete felt. Small wonder, as he was still swearing his waistcoat, jacket and cravat. Pete sat bolt-upright.

“How are you not dying?” he demanded.

Patrick smiled. “I am,” he admitted. “I can’t deal with this weather.”

“Then take some clothes off, Jesus. I feel faint just looking at you.”

Patrick’s face was already pink from the heat, but Pete could have sworn his blush deepened. “Um, no. No thanks.”

Pete rolled his eyes. “Come on. You just said you’re far too hot. I guarantee just taking your jacket off will make you feel – well. Not better, but less likely to combust.”

“I’d rather not,” Patrick said stiffly.

“Come on, Stump. Removing your jacket isn’t going to compromise your virtue.”

Patrick gave him a look. “And what will your servants think if they see me rolling around half-naked on the floor with you?”

“I’m not half-naked,” Pete said mildly. “And it’s too hot to roll anywhere. But of course, if you removed your jacket, everyone will assume that you’ve succumbed to my advances and that I’ve had my wicked way with you.” Pete grinned unrepentantly as Patrick glared at him. “Though,” Pete added thoughtfully, “they’d have to have very active imaginations. Or very determined libidos. Anyone who can even think of having sex in this weather is made of sterner stuff than me.”

“You’re dreadful,” Patrick said, but he was evidently wavering, his fingers going to the button of his jacket.

“I am,” Pete agreed solemnly. “It may surprise you to learn, Patrick, that most of my staff have seen me in various states of undress-” he grinned when Patrick snorted, “-I know. Unbelievable, isn’t it? So I can tell you this is far from the least clothed they have seen me. I’m practically a model of propriety, dressed like this. If someone were to come in and find us in shirtsleeves, they’d probably just think you were a sensible man trying to keep cool in frankly awful weather. At worst they’d think I’d pestered you into joining me in one of my vulgar schemes.”

“‘Vulgar schemes’ is right,” Patrick told him firmly, but he slipped out of his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat, the need to cool down evidently outweighing his sense of propriety.

“Your cravat has wilted,” Pete said when he hesitated, waistcoat hanging limply at his sides, and Patrick huffed in exasperation, pulling off both the waistcoat and the cravat with evident relief, and setting them on the chair with his jacket. “You see, that wasn’t so bad!”

Patrick gave him another look and slumped into an armchair, eyes closed. Pete eyed him from his vantage point on the floor. Patrick was wearing one of the shirts he’d brought with him, presumably because it was old and worn thin enough that he wouldn’t spontaneously combust from the heat. In fact, it was so thin it was almost sheer in places; Pete almost fancied he could see glimpses of skin every time Patrick breathed. Patrick’s hair flopped over his forehead; sweat gleamed at his temples and at the hollow of his throat. He looked relaxed, comfortable without his protective layers of clothing – and that was not a train of thought Pete should be pursuing. Instead, he switched his gaze to the ceiling. The heat was ridiculous, and staying in London was just as foolish. At least at Highleyton, there was a plunge pool, though God knew what state it was in after Pete’s six-year absence.

Highleyton. That was a thought.

Pete turned his head to look at Patrick. “We should go to Highleyton,” he said.

Patrick opened his eyes. “What?”

“Highleyton. My estate out in Buckinghamshire.”

“I thought your estate might be called something like that,” Patrick said, disingenuous. “What with you being called Lord Highleyton, and all.”

“Very funny,” Pete said, too hot to laugh. “We should go. It’d be a damn sight cooler than here. And I know Greta’s dying to get rid of me.” He grinned – Patrick, however, looked a little worried.

“You should go, of course-”

Pete frowned. “But you wouldn’t?”

Patrick sighed. “I mean, I’d love to come – as long as you didn’t mind me tagging along.”

“Yes,” Pete said blandly. “Because when I said ‘we’, I really meant ‘I’, accustomed as I am to using the royal we, and as much as I dislike your company, and as much as I like rattling around in that house by myself, as I do.”

Finally, after a brief pause, Patrick cracked a smile. “Alright, I’ll come to Highleyton with you. You didn’t have to be such a priss about it.”

“I don’t know any other way to be,” Pete told him, grinning.

“So I have learnt,” Patrick agreed, long-suffering.

“And you love it, right?”

“Love is a strong word,” Patrick said thoughtfully. “Tolerate, maybe.” He laughed when Pete pulled a tragic face.

“No one appreciates me,” Pete mourned, clambering to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Patrick asked him, looking up at him from the chair. Pete’s heart skipped a beat as Patrick sat up, the afternoon sunlight catching him and bringing out the copper lights in his hair, the green in his eyes. Then Pete looked back at him, and swallowed. Patrick raised an eyebrow at the extended silence. “Well?”

Pete consciously closed his mouth. “Um, to see Greta,” he remembered, shaking himself back into the present. “So we actually get to Highleyton before the heat-wave breaks and everyone comes back to London again.”

**

“But you hate Highleyton,” Greta said, frowning.

Pete shifted impatiently – after a house-wide search, he’d eventually found Greta in the laundry room, folding shirts. It was the hottest room in the house, and Greta was in a recalcitrant mood, even though she’d clearly chosen to do this job. It wasn’t, after all, the usual task of the housekeeper to fold shirts. “I don’t hate Highleyton,” he protested, rather than mention this. Greta would just brow-beat him until he admitted he was wrong about everything. “Alright, my early memories of the place aren’t exactly fond, but-”

“You spent two weeks there for your father’s memory, and left as soon as was possible, never mind decent,” Greta reminded him briskly.

“Yes, well… it’ll be different this time,” Pete said weakly.

“Is Mr Stump going with you?” Greta asked, suddenly shrewd.

“He is; I want to show him the estate while the weather’s nice.” Greta smirked and he hurried on. “And if it gets me out of London before I die of heatstroke, so much the better.”

“Hmm,” Greta still looked far too amused for Pete’s comfort, but she nodded, adding another shirt to the stack in the basket and resting it on her hip. “Alright. We won’t have anything ready before tomorrow. Do you think you can last that long? And are you going to send word ahead?”

“I probably should – organise it, would you, please? I’ll try not to melt in the meantime. Thanks, Greta.”

He climbed the stairs to the main part of the house and ran into Patrick in the hall. “Will you be ready to set out tomorrow?” he asked, skidding to a halt and grabbing Patrick’s arm to steady himself.

Patrick nodded. “I think so. I told Joe to pack whatever he thought was needed.”

“Is Mr Trohman coming too?” Pete asked, his heart sinking a little at the thought of a Highleyton inhabited by an unfriendly, disapproving Joe Trohman.

“He’s not,” Patrick said with an all-too-knowing look. “He said he had things to do here, which is mostly a lie – Joe just hates the country. But when he says ‘things to do here’, I think he mainly means trying to curry favour with Greta.”

“Such a shame he won’t be joining us,” Pete said, trying for sincerity.

Apparently he failed, because Patrick laughed. “Watching you and Joe do this little dance of yours is the most fun I’ve had in years.”

“I’m glad my utter terror provides you with so much amusement,” Pete told him dryly. “Andy’s staying in London as well, the better to raise a mob against me and overthrow the uncaring aristocratic regime.”

“So we’ll be alone?” Patrick said, his tone almost casual enough to fool Pete.

For a moment, the thought of Patrick completely and wholly to himself sent Pete’s head spinning. Then he came back to himself. “Well, there are staff there, too,” he mumbled incoherently. “I had better, um – Andy will want to – packing. I have to pack. I’ll see you at dinner?”

He made an ungainly escape, leaving Patrick at the foot of the stairs, staring up after him.

**

“Patrick. Patrick, wake up.”

Patrick jerked awake and looked out of the carriage window at yet more trees. “Where are we?”

“Here. I mean, this is the drive.” Pete peered out of the other window. “I think. We certainly passed some gates so either we’re here or we’re about to throw ourselves on someone’s charity. And the gates had my crest on, so I think we’re safe.” 

The trees got boring very quickly and Patrick turned his attention to Pete. He was staring out of the window, an odd expression on his face. There was something in the set of his shoulders that told Patrick things weren’t as all right as Pete wanted him to believe. “We could always turn round,” he offered, only half-joking. “I’m sure Greta would welcome us back with open arms.”

Pete flashed a grin at him. “Of course. Well, one open arm and a knife behind her back. No,” he looked out of the window again, his expression unreadable. “We’re here now. And London will still be as hot as when we left it.”

Reminded of the heat, Patrick winced. Wanting to make a good impression, he’d dressed with some care, but as always, hours in a stifling carriage had probably left him looking distinctly rumpled. At least here no one would attribute his dishevelment to Pete. He hoped. “Is this the first time you’ve been back here since you returned from India?” he asked rather than dwell on that thought.

“Oh no,” Pete said absently. “I came back to make sure everything was in order. It was, so I left.” He shrugged. “I’m not a fan of the country.”

Or this house, Patrick thought, watching Pete’s closed expression. But then they rounded the corner and Patrick saw Highleyton for the first time. 

It was one of the most beautiful houses he’d ever seen, situated perfectly against the backdrop of the Chiltern Hills, the sweep of the carriage drive and the gardens giving it a quiet stateliness. The golden stone of the house mirrored back the early afternoon sunlight. It was the most peaceful and welcoming house Patrick had ever seen – and he’d loved Westcote. “It’s…if I lived here, I’d never want to leave.”

Pete’s expression hadn’t lightened. “You aren’t me. But yes. Welcome to Highleyton. Feast your eyes upon my inheritance.”

Patrick risked a smile. “’Look upon my works, ye mighty’?”

“And despair,” Pete agreed with a reluctant smile back, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. The carriage ground to a halt and Patrick automatically went to open the door. Pete stopped him with a hand on his arm. “No, no,” he said dryly. “We’re at Highleyton now. Everything – and I do mean everything – will be done for us. Appearances, you know.”

On cue, the carriage door swung open and voice outside said, “My lord, welcome home.”

“Yes,” Pete said and jumped out of the carriage. Hesitantly, Patrick followed. 

Up close, the house was vast and just as intimidatingly beautiful as it had been from far away and Patrick swallowed. It wasn’t often he remembered the differences in his and Pete’s circumstances, but Highleyton reminded him. It wasn’t just the sheer number of servants lined up, respectfully blank-faced, to meet their erstwhile master, or the immaculate lawns or the glimmer of gold round the edges of the windows where an ancestor had followed the example of the Devonshires. It was the sense of order and regulation, and the changes, indeed, in Pete himself. There was a tightness to his face that hadn’t been there before, the impression that he not only expected respect but would enforce it, for which his relaxed demeanour in London hadn’t prepared Patrick. Patrick watched him as he greeted the servants, grinning at a few old faces but keeping himself at a distance. Most people got a nod, some were graced with a thin, reserved smile. Patrick felt unaccountably uncomfortable. He didn’t feel he knew this Pete.

From somewhere round the edge of the house came the sound of raucous barking and Pete’s face cracked into the first genuine smile Patrick had seen since they’d past the gates. “Thank you all so much for your attention,” he addressed the servants in general. “I’m sure I’ll see all of you later.”

The servants all took it for the dismissal it was and dispersed, just as a flood of dogs, led by a small but determined bulldog, came around the side of the house. Pete unceremoniously dropped to his knees on the gravel and disappeared under a pile of barking dogs. “Hemmy! Rigby! My babies, I’ve missed you all so much!”

Patrick grinned. “Why don’t you bring a couple back to London?”

Pete appeared momentarily from under the sea of wagging tails. “I can’t,” he said ruefully. “They’re not town dogs. It wouldn’t be fair. And I wouldn’t want to make extra work for Greta.”

Patrick nodded, understanding, and Pete vanished again. One of the dogs danced near to Patrick, head cocked to one side, tail wagging uncertainly. Patrick held out a hand. “Aren’t you beautiful?” he said softly, grinning as his hand was washed enthusiastically. He pulled back with a jerk as a voice said loudly from the door,

“Get up at once, you dreadful boy!” 

Patrick froze as Pete looked towards the door, frowning. Surely no one here would speak to Pete that way – that was more Greta’s style. But then a slow smile lit Pete’s face and he stood up, brushing dirt off his knees. “Mrs Errol!” he cried and ran to hug a small, round, angry woman who stood in the doorway. “You’re still alive! I thought you were dead!”

Patrick stared. The woman pursed her lips. “I’m still alive, not that you’d care. You don’t write – not one express have I had since you went to London. And what’s this dreadful thing you’re wearing, you look ridiculous-“

“It’s the latest fashion,” Pete protested futilely as the woman steam-rolled on.

“I’ve always said people from London were fools. It must look like a draper’s workshop at one of your fancy dos-”

“But-”

“And you’ve got dirt on your face!” She reached for a handkerchief from the depths of her bosom, spat on it and rubbed briskly at Pete’s face.

“Oh my god, woman!” Pete spluttered, trying to push her away. “Take the annuity I offered you and leave!”

In a moment, the woman’s entire expression had trembled to the edge of outright despair. “You raise a boy from babyhood,” she quavered, “and he goes away to foreign places, then he comes back and breaks your heart-”

Pete grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around. “Look, a visitor!” he said encouragingly. Patrick recognised a diversionary tactic when he saw one and took an instinctive step back. “This is my friend, Mr Patrick Stump. Patrick, this is my old nurse, Mrs Errol. She practically raised me. ”

Patrick found himself treated to a gimlet-eyed once-over, entirely at odds with Mrs Errol’s current role of Tragic Muse, before she dropped him a polite, perfunctory curtsey. He bowed deeply. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” she said, though her tone heavily implied that she was reserving judgement pending further inspection. “It’s lovely to meet one of his lordship’s friends. You never bring anyone here,” she rounded on Pete again. “Sometimes I think you’re ashamed of us-“

“Ah yes, well,” Pete interrupted smoothly. “I would bring friends back without a second thought if it were only you here. But I don’t want to tax Mrs Waybridge over-much.”

“That Woman-!” This clearly struck a chord, and Pete turned to the house as Mrs Errol’s rant broke over them, beckoning Patrick on.

“It’s safe now,” he murmured in an undertone. “She’ll go on for hours.” He looked more like Patrick’s Pete, which gave Patrick the courage necessary to walk up the stairs and into Highleyton House at last.

**

The rest of the day passed in something of a muddle. Patrick’s trunk had already been taken up to his room, but he had yet to see the upstairs – Pete took him into a ‘small morning room’ about the size of Pete’s London drawing room, where they were served sandwiches and lemonade before Pete gave him a tour of the house.

Afterwards, Patrick remembered the tour as a haze of sticky sunshine and bewilderment and not much else. The rooms seemed to blur into one long parade of grandeur, all gilt ceilings and impressive furniture, while Pete said incomprehensible things about putting the East Wing under holland covers and keeping the chimneys swept and the unreasonable cost of the window tax. When they finally went up the grand, sweeping central staircase, Patrick could already feel himself drooping under the weight of the house – it had seemed so beautiful and peaceful from the outside, but inside, divided into grand rooms, the sense of peace and rightness left, and in its place was something hard and regimented, as unlike Pete’s cheerfully chaotic townhouse as possible.

Suddenly the determined newness of Pete’s London home made perfect sense. Everything in Brunswick Square was up-to-date and fashionable, and there was nothing in evidence that could have harked back to the family past. Everything about Highleyton seemed to jar against what Patrick knew of Pete’s character – it was stuck in that past, a past that had no place for someone like Pete. It would go marching on into the future of the Marquesses of Highleyton, stern and unchanging, and Pete himself would get swallowed up into it. The house and its attending rights and duties would be remain, and the individuals who made up that long line of aristocrats could go hang. The important thing was the continuation, not the innovation that someone like Pete could doubtless bring to his role.

Maybe he was more tired than he knew, Patrick thought rather dismally. All he really knew for sure was that he would like to gut the place and start again, until it was somewhere that Pete could be happy. Outside, it was such a beautiful place – it was somehow deeply and profoundly wrong that it should feel so unwelcoming.

Finally, Patrick had had enough, as much of the way Pete’s voice was becoming brittle and ever-more formal as of the endless procession of rooms. Gently, he reached out and touched Pete’s arm.

“It’s beautiful,” he said quietly, “but perhaps the rest of the tour could wait? I don’t think I could take in much more, and I’d really like to see my room, if that’s alright.”

Pete flashed him a grin that was just fractionally too wide. “Of course!” he said, over-bright. “This way. I had them put you in the family wing, near me – they’d made you up a room in the guest wing, but we’d have to hike to see each other, and well. That’s just ridiculous, isn’t it?” Presumably, that was what Pete had been murmuring about to one of the servants while Patrick sprawled on a sofa, unable to do much more than sip at the blessedly cool lemonade and wish for death.

“Utterly ridiculous,” he agreed, and Pete’s answering grin was a little more natural. “But I suppose the family wing has eighteen bedrooms and can sleep twenty four.”

“Please,” Pete sniffed. “A round thirty, at a push.” The joke sounded a little flat; Patrick wished he could hug Pete, but for once he didn’t think Pete would welcome being touched. Instead, he followed, silent and useless, as Pete led the way down a long, windowed gallery, waving a hand at the paintings on the wall. “My esteemed ancestors,” Pete told him airily. “Don’t worry, they always look like they’re judging you. My sister and I used to try and decide which was worse – our great-great-grandmother’s snarl, or Uncle William’s smirk. That was when we were in the nursery, of course, before the rein of governesses and tutors and schools set in, and such frivolities began to be frowned upon.”

Something about Highleyton clearly made Pete feel on-edge and defensive, Patrick thought, and he felt oddly protective of him. It was all-too obvious that Pete had never been made to feel welcome in this house; the idea of ‘Marquess of Highleyton’ was everywhere and the things that made Pete _Pete_ were pushed out of the way and discounted. Patrick felt some sympathy for the snarling great-great-grandmother – he rather wanted to snarl himself.

“It was the best part about selling Westcote,” he said, instead of opening that particular can of worms. “Getting shot of the family portraits. My grandmother’s made her look like she single-handedly repelled the Norman invaders – ancient and vicious.” He paused, thoughtfully. “To be fair, it wasn’t a _completely_ inaccurate portrait,” he mused, slanting a glance at Pete, cheered by the way his lips twitched.

They turned a corner into another long corridor, and Pete ushered Patrick into the second door on the left. “Your room, Mr Stump,” he said grandly, bowing absurdly as he shut the door behind them. “I hope it’s to your tastes.”

Patrick glanced around, expecting the same cold, unwelcoming elegance of the other rooms, and found himself in a pleasant, high-ceilinged room, with two large windows letting in the early-evening sun.

“Thank you,” he said, moving over to the window for the first look at the gardens behind the house, turning the smile back at Pete. “This is lovely.”

Pete was watching him, something strange and hopeful in his face. “I’m just down the corridor if you need anything.” He pulled a face. “In the master bedroom. They insisted, and it didn’t seem worth protesting, so I’ve been installed in there.”

Patrick paused for a moment, then decided to risk it. “Is it alright?” he asked carefully. “Being here? Because for all I care we could go to an inn. Or sleep in the carriage.” He’d rather Pete was happy than here; it didn’t matter that this was the grandest house Patrick had ever imagined if Pete didn’t feel comfortable.

For a second, Pete’s face fell – then he was smiling and shrugging. “It’s fine,” he said easily. “It takes some getting used to, being back here.” He crossed the room to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Patrick at the window, looking out over the immaculate hedges of the formal gardens. “It’s easier with you here,” he admitted, and turned to smile at Patrick, squinting against the sun. “I can already tell you’re going to make this place better. I wish you’d been here when I was growing up.”

“I wish you’d been at Westcote,” Patrick said, bumping his shoulder against Pete’s, companionable. “I think you’d have liked it.” He paused, wondering what stories to tell Pete. He hadn’t thought about his childhood in a very long time. Between one thing and another, it hurt a little too much to remember how happy and easy things had been once upon a time. Sometimes, before he’d met Pete, his happy, easy childhood really had felt like a fairy tale, or something that happened to someone else.

But he _had_ met Pete, and things had become, indefinably, better. It wasn’t not having to worry about money and food, or how to keep three people on a meagre amount of money – though Patrick would be the first to admit that that definitely helped. But with Pete there, there was someone who would readily enter into his concerns, if Patrick let him, someone he liked and understood and wanted to help in turn. For some inexplicable reason, it meant the world to him.

So instead of deflecting away his memories of Westcote and his family, he turned to Pete and smiled. “In the summer, we used to go on picnics, my family and I. Westcote was on the River Wye, and we’d go down to the river for the day, and my parents didn’t care how muddy or wet we got so long as none of us tried to drown each other.” He grinned at Pete, who was listening with rapt attention. “Kevin did push me in once, but then Father made him swim out to get me, so none of us tried that again.” Patrick looked out over Highleyton’s gardens again, across the immaculate, sweeping lawns to the wilder parkland. “Kevin used to ride a lot,” he said quietly. “He tried to teach me, but – well. You know I never got the hang of it. He was a very good rider, everyone said- and he was a very good soldier, too.” He paused, and glanced at Pete. “A good brother, even when he was pushing me into rivers and trying to get me to eat mud.”

“I think I did manage to get my brother to eat mud,” Pete said thoughtfully, clearly aware that Patrick was feeling a little overwhelmed. “But we can’t have been caught, or we’d both have been thrashed. Anything that wasn’t befitting of Wentz of Highleyton tended to be soundly thrashed out of us.” He turned back to the room, away from the window. “I don’t think my father even knew,” he said quietly. “It was the servants who had charge of us most of the time, and they had to do their job. I don’t blame anyone. But it wasn’t a good way to grow up. And by the time I was old enough to be interesting to my father, well. The damage was already done, I suppose.”

Patrick turned to frown at him. “You’re not damaged, Pete,” he said firmly. “You’re many things, but you’re not damaged.” He headed over to his trunk, slipping the clasps open and lifting the lid. “My siblings and I always knew how lucky we were that our parents weren’t – typical.”

Pete didn’t reply, and Patrick busied himself with his trunk, lifting out shirts and stowing them in the chest of drawers.

“Don’t do that,” Pete said, after a couple of seconds. “You’ll make the servants cry, and then Mrs Waybridge will shout at me, very politely.” When Patrick turned round, Pete smiled up at him from where he’d seated himself on the bed. “And don’t pay any attention to me today. Being back here has me a little – on-edge.”

That was an understatement, Patrick thought privately, but said nothing, happy to let Pete tell whatever story he wanted. He didn’t worry that Pete was holding things back – goodness only knew that he himself had enough things he didn’t want to talk about. For whatever reason, he was content to believe that Pete would tell him in his own time.

“What time is dinner?” he asked, instead of pressing the point. 

“Oh, early,” Pete said airily. “I never keep Town hours in the country. It will probably be around seven – don’t bother to dress. I certainly shan’t.”

“Um,” Patrick said eloquently. He was fairly sure the master of the house would be forgiven things which would seem very odd in a mere guest. “I might change out of these things. They’re travel-stained, and I feel pretty grubby.”

Pete shrugged languidly and stood. “Then I’ll leave you to it,” he said, and smiled. “I don’t like being here,” he said, with a return to his earlier, almost painful honesty, “but I’m glad I’m here with you.” Pausing at the door, he turned back and added almost tentatively, “I’ll be along downstairs in the blue drawing room, if you want me, or – or if you just want some company. The servants will bring you anything you want.”

“I’ll be along shortly,” Patrick promised. When the door shut behind Pete, he sat on the bed for a long time, thinking.

**

It was almost an hour later before Patrick worked out how to summon a servant, obtained hot water, changed and went to find Pete. The servant who’d brought him the water told him that ‘Parsifleur’, whoever that was, would be his valet during his stay, “since you didn’t bring yours with you, sir.” From the girl’s tone, his lack of valet was being discussed at length in the servant’s hall, and was definitely being considered very odd indeed.

It presented Patrick with something of a problem. He’d never actually had a proper valet – his father had, a stern-faced old man called Smythe, whose pockets had seemed to contain endless amounts of hard-boiled sweets, which the children would be handed whenever one of them was in disgrace. Patrick supposed that Smythe had had duties other than the consolation of children, but he’d never actually known what they were. Joe, of course, was not a valet. Pete’s Andy might have been a valet, but he could hardly ask Pete what Andy’s job actually entailed – Pete would laugh himself sick.

Perhaps Parsifleur could be deflected, but someone with a name like Parsifleur probably couldn’t be deflected from anything. He sounded like the sort of servant who could reduce Patrick to cowed silence with a deferential bow. He was shamefully glad that he had pre-empted Parsifleur for one night at least.

But being presentable meant having to leave his room, and going to find Pete, and he had absolutely no idea where the ‘blue drawing room’ was. In this place, it could be anywhere.

He wondered out into the Gallery and hovered for a long moment at the top of the stairs. Had they been back in London, he would have called for Pete – someone would have heard him and sent him in the right direction, and there were a finite number of places that Pete could really be. Here, Patrick was genuinely worried that he could get lost and not be found for weeks.

There was at least a bell-pull to his right, and he yanked on it before he could drown in an increasingly panicked mental monologue. When a servant – a good-looking young man with an apparently-engrained expression of distaste – appeared at his elbow, Patrick was taking deep, calming breaths and reminding himself that Pete would definitely notice if he disappeared.

“I’m looking for the blue drawing room?” Patrick said, and congratulated himself on a job well-done. He’d sounded calm and in-control and like he dealt with these situations all the time.

“Of course, sir,” the man – perhaps this was Parsifleur, Patrick thought – said, in a way that implied that if Patrick was really well-bred he’d have known on instinct where to go. Still, he turned and led the way through the labyrinthine corridors. 

It was summer and the whole house was lit with the warm, golden light of evening. Pete may have grumbled about the window tax but it was certainly worth it for the sunlight that flooded the corridors and made the house seems less imposing. Even the dining room, panelled from floor to ceiling in dark wood, looked cheerier, especially with the noise of the servants laying out  
the things for supper.

Pete was already in the sitting room by the time Patrick’s reluctant guide had led them there. He was slumped in one of the armchairs, staring at the empty fireplace. He looked lost in thought and Patrick almost tiptoed out again before Pete looked up and smiled. “I was just wondering what to do with you tomorrow,” he said, looking a little sheepish. “Having dragged you here, I totally forgot that there’s absolutely nothing to do. You’re going to be so bored, I’m sorry.”

“Greta said there was a library,” Patrick perched awkwardly on another chair. After so many weeks of living in cheerful chaos, the sheer grandeur of Highleyton was making him uncomfortable. It was a little like those first few days at Pete’s, when he’d lived by inches, paranoid that he’d put a foot wrong. But Pete was talking, and Patrick hurriedly dragged himself back into the conversation.

“-and there is the town of Highleyton, but that’s about half a day away and ‘town’ is pushing it. It’s five houses and an inn. And a duck-pond.”

“Well. If there’s a duck-pond, I simply have to go,” Patrick said gravely and Pete laughed, a crack of sound that echoed loudly around the room and died. This house was far too big for two people, Patrick thought. It was easy to see why Pete had left so quickly after he returned from India. 

“We can go and see the duck-pond, if you like. The inn does do very good cider, actually,” Pete said, brightening visibly. 

“I see. Now you’re interested,” Patrick said, grinning, and Pete grinned back.

“I have my priorities. And while I’m here, I prefer to be as drunk as possible, so.”

Patrick’s smile faded. “Was it really so bad, growing up here?” he asked, and Pete pulled a face.

“No, not really. I’m being melodramatic. Anyway, that’s a story for another day. Come on, Mr Stump. Let’s go and beg the servants to feed us.”

**

Patrick woke late the next morning to find that someone had already drawn back the curtains and the morning sunshine was already pouring in, pooling on the floor. The same someone – presumably Parsifleur – had filled the wash-jug with warm water and laid out clothes for the day, and Patrick flung himself out of bed before his invisible valet could reappear and do something awful, like insist on dressing him. There was only so much embarrassment Patrick could take before his first cup of coffee.

He was struggling with his cravat when the mysterious Parsifleur arrived, carrying a tray. It wasn't the same man who had directed him last night – Parsifleur was a diminutive, mousy-haired man, almost painfully unobtrusive, and he stood on a level with Patrick, which made things slightly less awkward when he carefully put the breakfast tray down on a table and came over to do Patrick's cravat.

“Sir should have waited,” he said, in tones of heartfelt reproach, and Patrick wanted to disappear.

“I like to do these things for myself,” he mumbled awkwardly. Somewhere in the room, he could smell coffee. He was fairly certain he'd deal better with coffee inside him. (Some dim, long-suppressed part of him wondered how he'd fare when he eventually took himself off Pete's goodwill and went back to his own home. He'd managed without coffee before, and he’d have to again. But that part of him hadn't spoken up in weeks, and he ignored it.)

“Of course,” Parsifleur told him deferentially. “I'm sure I'll have sir's likes and dislikes worked out soon enough.”

“Do you have a first name?” Patrick blurted out. “I - I'd prefer to call you by your first name.”

Parsifleur gave him a quick, surprised look, then busied himself with Patrick's night-things. Patrick had to clench his hands against the urge to go over and help. "Josiah, sir," he said eventually, tenderly placing Patrick's tired old night-shirt in a drawer, where Patrick would inevitably forget about it. Was this why the very rich employed real valets? Patrick wondered. To keep track of where their clothes actually were?

“Well, Josiah,” he said awkwardly, before he could actually ask that and embarrass them both still further. “Thank you for your help. And for breakfast. You - may go?” That probably shouldn't have come out as a question. Everyone in the servant's hall would be judging him now – even more than they already were.

Josiah Parsifleur bowed and left and Patrick went to examine the breakfast tray.

Breakfast in his room, he thought, rather hysterically. That was an unheard of luxury. Unless they were on their deathbed, everyone in his family had been expected to be down at breakfast at nine o'clock, no excuses.

Of course, everything had gone to pot when Kevin actually _was_ on his deathbed, he remembered, and put his knife down with a clatter. What was it about this place that dragged out painful memories? Pete's were to be expected, but Patrick had never been here before in his life. It didn't make sense.

He poured himself some coffee and went over to the window – he'd slept late, and the dew had all-but disappeared, but the lawns still looked damp, lush and green in the bright sunlight. It was an inviting view; perhaps Pete would be interested in a walk a little later, when he eventually got up. Or maybe there'd be a horse quiet enough for Patrick to ride – half-dead, perhaps, or heavily dosed with laudanum.

Then there was the library Greta had mentioned. Pete loved to read and the books in Brunswick Square were an eclectic lot – there was surely at least a day's worth of exploring to be had out of this library.

And he should write to Megan, he reminded himself, give her his new address. She'd be on holiday by now – which family had she said she'd be staying with? He'd have to check her last letter; he knew he'd brought it with him.

He drained the coffee cup and set it down, taking up his knife again to butter some bread. He'd write to Megan and go and explore. Perhaps, when Pete woke up, they could do the tour again, and Patrick could actually pay attention.

However intimidating Highleyton might be, Patrick was determined not to let it get the better of either of them.

**

With breakfast in his stomach, he felt a little better, and decided it was too beautiful a morning to stay indoors. He left his breakfast tray outside the door, and went downstairs (quickly checking the corridor outside in case Parsifleur was lurking to reproach him for not wanting to be physically carried to his destination). The hallway was deserted, and Patrick scuttled into the sitting room and out through the glass doors into the garden.

If the house was big, the garden was huge - Westcote could have easily fitted three times into the lawn that seemed to stretch into the distance. A glimmer in the distance had to be the fountains and plunge pool that Pete had mentioned - something Patrick was rapidly getting interested in: it was barely nine o'clock and the day was already hot. Sweat was starting to prickle at Patrick's collar.

"I thought you'd be out here," Pete said from behind him and Patrick jumped, turning round to look at him. He was, to Patrick's relief, also formally-dressed and wearing an expression of deep distaste. "I think you've got some kind of mania with the outdoors. It's not healthy."

"I just wanted to see the garden," and get away from your servants, Patrick nearly added and then thought better of it. 

Pete evidently read his mind because he grinned. "I've never caught them listening at doors but I have my suspicions."

Patrick snorted. "Joe told me that eavesdropping was the mark of a good servant. It means they take the family seriously, because they know all the secrets."

Pete came to stand next to him, looking out at the garden. "I don't know about secrets. What do I know is that they definitely heard more than they wanted if they listened at my bedroom door during my adolescence." He sniggered, impervious to the elbow that Patrick drove into his ribs. "So, what do you think of my estate?"

Patrick thought. "Honestly? That you must employ an entire regiment of gardeners."

Pete laughed. "Oh, I do. I think. I've never seen any but I suppose we do have them. I know I pay them. Do you want to take a look round while it's still cool?"

"It is not cool," Patrick told him. "But I do. How often do I get to explore the grounds of Highleyton House? The lake, ornamental village, the maze-"

"We don't have an ornamental village. We've got a maze, though-"

"Of course you do," Patrick shook his head. "Well then, my lord Highleyton. Show me your estate."

Pete looked worried. "All of it? Because we'll need horses, and provisions and - you're really getting entirely too free with your elbows there, Mr Stump. Fine, this way - we'll start in the kitchen gardens and work our way round. Oh! Did Greta ever tell you about the time she got caught scrumping from the orchard? I did it too, of course, but I didn't get caught..."

**

By the time they came in for lunch, Pete felt almost cheerful again. He'd been absolutely right - having Patrick here was fantastic. He'd hated this house for years, and his possession of it still felt oddly wrong and unsettling whenever he remembered it, but Patrick made things so much better. It was better even than having Mikey here with him - Mikey would have understood and been sympathetic, but Patrick's quiet understanding was somehow even more soothing than Mikey's would have been.

Even though every part of the house was layered in uncomfortable memories, he could already tell that having Patrick here would keep those memories at bay. Perhaps it wasn't a healthy way to deal with his issues with this house and his history with it, and his family and everything else about him that got him twisted into knots inside his head - but Patrick didn't seem to mind too much. So long as Patrick didn't find out about Pete's illnesses, things would probably be fine.

"Oh!" he exclaimed around a mouthful of ham, and Patrick pulled a revolted face, already laughing at him. Pete found himself utterly charmed, and grinned as he swallowed. "I forgot. I should show you the music rooms - or the music room, at least, the formal music room - the one we use for entertaining, where my poor sister had to play The Turtle Dove at least twice a week for two interminable years - that's in the East Wing, and it'll be shut up at the moment. But the other one's upstairs, and I think the piano's kept in tune. Do you play the harp?"

Patrick's eyes were wide, but the tilt of his mouth was sceptical. "Music _rooms_ ," he said slowly. "You have _two_ music rooms."

Pete gave him an equally ironic look in return. "Of course," he said, sardonic, then unbent a little. "One of my esteemed ancestors was a little mad," he explained easily, reaching for the lemonade and pouring himself another glass. He'd had to be quite firm about not wanting wine on the table at lunch - who wanted to drink wine in this heat? "He built onto the house a lot, and the whole of the East Wing on this floor is dedicated to entertaining. There's the ballroom, of course, and the supper room, the formal drawing room, and the second music room. And the green sitting room, but I honestly don't think I've ever been in there. I don't even know if it's green. Mama used to call it the garden room, but I don't think she ever went in there either - very drafty, the East Wing."

Patrick choked on his lemonade. "It's so good to know that even the wealthy have their problems," he said sweetly, and helped himself to another slice of game pie. "So the East Wing was built just for entertaining?"

"Upstairs, it's the family wing," Pete said helpfully. "Coming off the Long Gallery. I tell you what, if we get bored while we're here, we should put all the family portraits in the guest wing and hope they get mould and rot. We could replace all of them with pictures that we like. There's a landscape in the Chinese room that would be much nicer than Great-Aunt Lucinda."

"Mama hid all the pictures of relatives she disliked in the guest wing," admitted Patrick. "I remember I slept there once and had nightmares for weeks, with all those eyes staring at me."

"Your mother disliked a lot of your relatives, then?" Pete asked, grinning as Patrick pulled a face.

"Not a _lot_ , and not disliked precisely. We just had so many relatives, she could pick and choose."

"I wish I could do that," Pete said wistfully. "But I've got long and draughty corridors to fill."

"It's hard being you," Patrick told him sincerely, and Pete grinned at him.

"It is," Pete said, and he could tell, from the way Patrick glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes, lips quirking, eyes warm, that he'd caught the sarcasm underlying Pete's assumed sincerity. "You can't walk down a corridor without being judged by someone, and most of those someones have been dead for years."

"Well that thought will haunt my nightmares tonight, Pete, thank you," Patrick told him, just the right side of tart, and Pete had to cover his laugh with a napkin. Unlike Brunswick Square, the footmen here were unlikely to join in the joke. Most likely, a great deal of character defamation was going on downstairs, where neither Mrs Errol nor Mrs Waybridge could hear it. Or, indeed, the old butler, Mr Hodges, who should probably be retired, but had always covered for Pete and his siblings when they were younger, and had been nice to Greta to boot. 

"Believe me," he said, almost absently, "the portraits are the least frightening thing about this place."

The warmth left Patrick's eyes as he looked round the enormous panelled dining room, eyes lingering on the mirror-polish of the table. But when he looked back at Pete, he was smiling. "Well, I know you have your detractors, but I wouldn't exactly call you _frightening_ -"

Pete snorted with laughter and ended up inhaling lemonade. A footman stepped forwards to help him, patting him on the back without so much as a flicker in his expression - unfortunately, Patrick caught Pete's eyes at exactly that moment, and neither of them seemed able to stop laughing. There was a flash of affront on the footman's face, and Pete wanted to apologise, would have done if they'd been back home, but he didn't know the man's name, and he thought an apology might make things worse. 

Hell, they already thought he was mad. At least this was a happier madness than normal.

The laughter seemed somehow more sustaining than lunch, and they abandoned it soon after. It was too hot to eat much, in any case - all either of them wanted was to collapse somewhere cool. Pete was seriously considering the ice-house.

"Hang on," Patrick said, as they traipsed from room to room, getting hotter and more irritable as each successive room - even the library! - proved to be full of bright, boiling sunlight. "Didn't you say the East Wing was shut up?"

"Yes...?" Pete said, too hot and irritable to pay much attention. 

"Well," Patrick said reasonably. "The shutters will be closed. And the carpets will be rolled up. And no one will be in there. It might be cooler."

"And the ballroom is enormous," Pete agreed, beginning to see the logic. "Patrick, you're a genius."

"I know," Patrick agreed, modest, grinning at him as Pete led the way towards the door to the East Wing. "It's part of my charm."

Pete felt like a child again, sneaking in where he wasn't supposed to be, even though it was his house and everyone was supposed to do what he said. Supposed, however, was the key word. It didn't matter that people were supposed to do what he said - nine times out of ten, Mrs Waybridge would ignore him, or Hodges would tell him, at length and in detail, how things had Always Been Done This Way, and what he wanted would be ignored. Still. If he wanted to go into the East Wing, it was his damn East Wing and no one would stop him.

It was dark and cool in the passageway, the only light coming from the one window at the end of the corridor. The enormous double doors of the ballroom stood shut, and they creaked alarmingly when Pete pushed one of them open.

"These hinges need oiling," he whispered to Patrick, who raised an eyebrow at him and went ahead into the dim light of the ballroom.

"Why are we whispering?" he asked, in normal tones. His voice echoed eerily through the room, and Pete shut the door behind them, leaving the room even dimmer than before. 

Sunlight trickled through the slats of the shutters pulled across the huge French windows leading out to the terrace, dust-motes dancing frantically in the light as Patrick made his way over to the centre of the room, and stood looking round it.

"I bet the acoustic in here is fantastic," he said, awed, and hummed one long note, listening to it echo around the room. Pete stood back and watched him, a little awed himself, as Patrick hummed a chord, and turned to smile at him. "I bet it sound amazing when there’s a band," he said thoughtfully, and Pete shrugged.

"I haven't been to a ball at Highleyton since my come-out," he said lightly. "And I don't really remember the music, if I'm honest. It was just bright lights and people who wanted to talk to me."

"How awful," Patrick said dryly, but Pete didn't think he was being mocked. If anyone understood why Pete had hated those balls, it was probably Patrick.

"Not when you're in the mood for it," Pete said, thinking it through. "Sometimes, there's nothing you want so much as a room full of distractions and people to talk to. And sometimes, all you want to see is the inside of your own head. I spent a lot of time inside my own head back then." That was skirting a little too close to the edge of things he didn't want to tell Patrick - not yet, maybe not ever - so he cleared his throat and changed the subject. "If this acoustic is so great, prove it to me," he challenged. "Sing me something, Stump."

"Shan't," Patrick said easily. "You can't make me."

"That," Pete said, advancing, "was not a wise thing to say."

What followed was an undignified chase around the ballroom until Pete finally grabbed the back of Patrick's jacket and found himself holding an empty jacket and staring at an open door. 

"You come back here right now and sing for me, Patrick!" he shouted, and took off after him, following the sound of running feet.

When they stopped, he paused warily and advanced cautiously towards the corner. When Patrick jumped out at him, he was prepared. Grabbing his arm, he hauled him back towards the ballroom, all-too-aware of the heat of Patrick's skin through the thin linen of his shirt. Patrick dug his heels in, and was dragged, slip-sliding, over the polished floorboards.

"This is kidnapping," he said, a little breathless, and Pete glanced back at him. He saw the exact moment Patrick formulated a plan of action, and was half-expecting it when Patrick went completely boneless and brought them both crashing to the floor.

For a second or so it was an awkward pile of limbs, and Pete nearly elbowed Patrick in the face at least twice. And then suddenly, he was lying half-on-top of him, and he had to scramble backwards before he embarrassed both of them, but mostly himself.

Having put a respectable amount of distance between them, he adjusted his cuffs nonchalantly, trying to ignore the way his heart was pounding. Patrick stood up, rubbing his elbow and grimacing. He caught Pete's eye and smiled a little awkwardly. "It's my own fault. My housekeeper would have thrashed me for playing rough in the house. Can I have my jacket back?"

Pete looked down, realising he was still clutching Patrick's jacket. "You don't need it," he said, rather than hand it over. "It's far too hot."

"I like it," Patrick said mildly. "And I also like wearing clothes indoors." 

"Whereas you go completely naked outdoors?"

Patrick gave him a look and held out a hand. "Give it here."

Pete stood up and made a show of brushing non-existent dust off the jacket. "Sir," he said, bowing extravagantly and presenting it to Patrick like a valet would.

Patrick snorted, but played along, turning around and letting Pete shrug him into it. Pete smoothed his hands along the shoulders and tugged at the hem so it sat correctly, before pulling back and tucking his hands into his pockets so he wouldn't be tempted to go on touching. "There. All proper and modest. And when you die from the heat, I will make sure everyone knows that I was against you wearing a jacket in the first place."

"I'll write it in my will," Patrick promised, wandering away from him into the corridor towards the music room. "'Lord Highleyton is in no way responsible for my untimely and suspicious death at his house.' People won't suspect you of anything at all. And you have a piano!"

Pete frowned. "We do? It’s not still here, surely."

"Yes, you do." Patrick headed for a shape in the corner of the room, shrouded, like everything else, in dust sheets. He threw the cover back to reveal the piano Pete's father had given his sister for her sixteenth birthday. 

"Oh," Pete said softly, an unexpected lump coming to his throat. His sister had loved that piano, had tried to get Pete to play duets with her. By that point, Pete hadn't wanted to do anything that involved Highleyton.

Patrick paused, one hand on the lid. "Are you all right?"

Pete smiled quickly. "Yes, fine. I just... forgot we had this one. This isn't the main piano," he explained. "It's my sister's. I thought she'd taken it when she got married, but apparently not."

"Oh." Patrick hesitated. "Do you mind my-"

"No! Not at all. I see you trying to get out of playing for me," Pete said, with a stab at his normal humour. What was it about Highleyton that shook him up so badly? "I can't vouch for its tuning, though. I don't think anyone's touched that piano in at least a year."

"You never know," Patrick sat down on the stool and lifted the lid, running a hand over the keys. "It depends on the piano. Some of them keep their tuning quite well."

He played an experimental scale and they both winced.

"Really?" Pete said, deadpan. "I suppose this piano isn't one of the lucky ones."

"Your sister really should have taken it with her," Patrick said thoughtfully. "Look at it, it's beautiful."

"And maybe she'd have kept it tuned," Pete agreed. "The one in the central wing will probably have been kept tuned. But this is where any visiting young ladies and gentlemen came to be put through their musical paces, and, well. All that stopped when I took over the place."

"But now you want to put me through mine, is that it?" Patrick asked, smiling up at him, and playing another tentative chord. It wasn't quite as bad as the earlier one.

Pete pulled the holland cover off the nearest piece of shrouded furniture, checked that it was, in fact, a chair, not an overweight harp or a spinnet or something equally unlikely, and sat. Smiling back, he waved Patrick on. "Impress me," he ordered regally. "I, Marquis of Highleyton, overlord, benevolent dictator, command it."

"I don't know whether to play for you or strangle you," Patrick murmured, seating himself and spreading his fingers over the keys. A slightly off-key chord followed, sounding damp and rather muffled. They both winced. "I don't think anyone could be impressive with this instrument," he added. "I'm sorry. It just needs a bit of care and attention."

"Don't we all?" Pete murmured, and shrugged off Patrick's glance. "Come on, Pat, don't make me exercise my droit de seigneur."

Patrick put his hands in his lap and turned to glare at him. "Firstly, I really hope you don't actually know what that means," he said firmly. "And secondly, you have no droit de seigneur over me, I am a seigneur-free area and I don't acknowledge any droit, and _thirdly_ , droit de seigneur isn't normally used to make someone play the piano." He nodded prissily, then paused. "And don't call me Pat."

"Then what can I call you?" Pete asked, spreading his hands, pleading. "Patty? Patsy? Tricky? Trickster?"

"If you keep this up, we'll be back to Mr Stump," Patrick threatened. "And I'll call you nothing but my lord Highleyton. _In private_. And I'll bow _all the time_ , and show you proper deference, and everything."

“You are a cruel man,” Pete told him. “Come on, I promise, no more nicknames and I won't exercise even a little of my non-existent droit de seigneur. I just want to hear you try and get good music out of that thing.” Patrick still looked disgruntled, so Pete tried the route of base flattery. “If anyone could do it, you can,” he wheedled, and Patrick gave in, as Pete knew he would.

What followed was simultaneously the best and the worst rendition of Bach that Pete had ever heard.

"I don't even know why I'm clapping," he said, after an extended bout of applause, while Patrick glared down at the piano, apparently personally affronted. "That was awful. You were wonderful!" he added, when Patrick transferred his glare from the keyboard to him. "But, I mean, it sounded terrible."

“If your staff was half as diligent about keeping your musical instruments in key as they were about keeping them dust-free, you wouldn't have this problem,” Patrick told him, and then inexplicably went red. “Oh dear. That was rude, even for me. I'm sorry. I just-“

“‘Even for you’?” Pete said, incredulous, eyebrows raised. “Patrick, you're the soul of politeness. You're polite to every lack-witted numbskull who comes your way. You weren't even rude to _me_ and I'm the most lack-witted numbskull I know-“

“Don't,” Patrick said quietly, but he sounded insistent all the same. “I hate it when you talk like that about yourself.” Pete looked at him for a long moment, a little confused. All of his friends had at some point told him he was being ridiculous, that of _course_ he wasn’t stupid, or unlovable, or whatever it was he had said. But none of them had, as far as he could remember, told him that they disliked it when he said it. Patrick looked back down at his hands for a second, then up at Pete again, his gaze very direct. “It’s not true, and I hate thinking that you might believe that,” he said, apparently thinking that Pete’s silence meant he needed to elaborate on it. “It’s not that you’re perfect, believe me,” he smiled a little, “but you’re – you’re nowhere near as bad as you think you are. You don’t even come close to it.” He shrugged a little, awkward. “And maybe the way we met, and all that – the idiocy that I got us caught up in-” Pete started to protest, and Patrick shook his head, talking very fast, “maybe that made you feel worse, and I’m so sorry about that. But it shouldn’t, alright? We were both a bit stupid, maybe, but you’re not a monster because we both behaved like idiots. You’re not a – what did you say?”

“A lack-witted numbskull,” Pete supplied, a little shocked. He didn’t think Patrick had _ever_ said so much all at once. Possibly to anyone.

Patrick quirked a smile. “Yes, that. You’re not a lack-witted numbskull, or any of the other things you think you are.”

Part of Pete wanted to dissuade him. There was definitely part of him that wanted to spill it all out, every last unpleasant thought and thoughtless action, and let Patrick pick through them, and judge for himself whether Pete was actually as decent as Patrick seemed to think he was. And another part of him wanted to cling to the idea Patrick had of him, maybe to become that person, so Patrick would never have to find out just how wrong he was about Pete. For a moment, he could only sit in silence, for once completely at a loss, totally unable to respond at all, torn between two equal and opposing urges. 

Finally, though, he looked away. “I hope you’re not making an angel of me in your head,” he said, the best compromise he could come up with.

Patrick just laughed. “Definitely not,” he said firmly. “You’re an idiot and you’re thoughtless and you take things for granted, but here’s the thing, Pete - _just like everyone else_. We all do things like that. _I_ do things like that, you don’t know a quarter of the idiotic, unkind, foolish things I’ve ever done. It doesn’t make either of us demons, just like – God, I don’t know. Giving to charity and behaving politely doesn’t make anyone an angel.”

Pete just nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak. It was nothing he hadn’t said to himself before – that he magnified all his mistakes until he couldn’t see past them, that they weren’t as glaring and terrible as he could make himself believe. But hearing it from someone else was an entirely different thing.

Patrick took pity on him eventually. “Come on,” he said, standing and letting the piano stool scrape back. “You said the green sitting room had a draft. Let’s go and find out if your mother was right. And you can finally see if it’s actually green.”

Pete pulled himself to his feet by an effort of will. Then, not quite wanting to let go of the moment, he turned and formally offered Patrick his arm.

He was rewarded by a grin as Patrick decorously laid his hand in the crook of Pete’s elbow, and they left the music room arm-in-arm.

**

After that, the afternoon passed in relative peace. The garden sitting room turned out to be both cool and green, and Pete left briefly to brave the boiling heat of the library, returning triumphant with copies of the worst gothic literature he could find, chucking Patrick _The Romance of the Forest_ and daring him to find the worst passage he could. Between giggling like schoolboys over particularly purple prose and reading furiously for the worst possible parts, they lost track of time, and it was only when it started to get dark, and the last of the light in the room began to fade that they realised how late it was.

They fled the darkening East Wing in silence, regaining the safety of the central wing only to look at each other in the light of the candles and find that they were still covered in dust from their fall, hours earlier.

“You look like a ragamuffin,” Patrick told Pete, futilely trying to beat the dust out of Pete’s coat.

Pete batted him away. “It’s no use,” he retorted cheerfully. “It’ll have to be given to the tender care of the laundry maids, to do with as they will. We’ll have to go up and change for dinner, anyway.”

“Oh God, dinner,” Patrick moaned, glancing at a particularly handsome tall clock. “Parsifleur is going to punish me with apologies for not finding me earlier.”

“Who _is_ Parsifleur?” Pete asked, following Patrick as he hurried up the stairs.

“He’s been assigned to be my valet during my stay,” Patrick said over one shoulder. “I think if I tried to say I didn’t need a valet, your servants would all think I was an unlettered barbarian.”

“Oh, I don’t think my servants are that insightful,” Pete said gently, and Patrick threw a glare at him.

“You’re not helping,” he gritted out, as they headed for the family wing at a clipping pace.

“Oh, Patrick,” Pete said fondly. “I wasn’t trying to _help_.”

“I hate you, and I hope you choke on something unmentionable suspended in aspic,” Patrick told him venomously, throwing himself into his room and shutting the door behind him.

**

They were both late to dinner. Patrick came down to find Pete being gently but firmly berated by the butler – Hodgkins? Hodgeson? Hodge-something, anyway. Apparently dinner at Highleyton been served at six for as long as Hodge-something could remember, and Hodge-something had worked in the house man and boy. Pete was clearly trying to explain that it didn’t matter, it was only him and Patrick, though of course he was sorry if the cook’s work had spoiled at all, but the butler was having none of it. It was, Patrick knew, almost impossible to argue with someone who had worked for your family for years and known you as a child, and he didn’t envy Pete the task at all.

“And besides, your lordship,” the butler said, deferentially but with the air of one delivering an unreturnable blow, “you have a guest staying.”

“Oh, Patrick isn’t a guest,” Pete said airily, and Hodge-something – Hodges! Patrick was almost sure of it - _Hodges_ ’ eyebrows rose just fractionally. 

“No, my lord?”

“He’s an old friend,” Pete said, grinning at the old man, more familiar than Patrick had seen him be with any of the staff here other than Mrs Errol. “Practically family. I wouldn’t dream of standing on ceremony with him.”

“Your father, your lordship-” Hodges began, but Patrick could see he had committed a fatal error. Worse, he knew it.

“My father was an excellent man,” Pete said, rigidly polite. “But he is not here, and he isn’t me, either. You can tell Cook that dinner will be at seven from now on, and we shan’t be wanting supper either. Lunch and breakfast will remain as they are.”

“Exactly as they are,” Patrick added hastily, before Pete could overturn any more old traditions and give the poor butler a heart-attack. “Please tell her from me that lunch was excellent.”

Hodges bowed and took himself off. He was too good a butler to so much as glance back reproachfully, but even the echoes of his shoes on the parquet sounded disapproving. 

“You probably shouldn’t have done that,” Patrick said, coming forward, and Pete sighed, all the fight going out of him.

“I know,” he said wearily. “But if I do everything according to the Highleyton Routine while I’m here, I’ll keep expecting to bump into the ghost of my father at every turn. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d laid a place for him at the table, at this rate.” He offered Patrick his arm again, just a little mocking, and Patrick took it with a sarcastic half-bow. “Hodges has announced dinner, incidentally – that was what started off that little scene. Shall we go in?”

**

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Pete said to no one in particular, the moment they entered the dining room, and Patrick blinked.

“Wh- oh.” 

Unlike dinner the night before, or indeed lunch that morning, where they had both been sat at one end of the table, Patrick on Pete’s right as Pete sat at the head, tonight the vast table had been laid to seat them at opposite ends.

“This is ridiculous,” Pete said slowly, and waved off a footman, yanking Patrick’s chair out himself, apparently without even noticing. “I suppose I’ll see you after dinner. It’s that or bawl down the table at each other, and I just don’t fancy it, I’m sorry.”

Patrick watched him make his way down to the other end of the table, unable to suppress his grin. “I think we’re in different counties now,” he called down the table, and Pete gave up his annoyance for long enough to grin back.

“What?” He bellowed back, far too loud. “I can’t hear you!”

He turned, and said something to a footman, who bowed and disappeared. Somehow, despite the man’s expression of polite attention, his every movement indicated bored resignation, and Patrick was reluctantly impressed. “Is everything alright?” Patrick asked. Pete spread his hands in the universal mime for not hearing something, and Patrick gave up.

He understood when the footman returned, carting ink, paper and quill along with him. Pete scribbled something, and despatched the long-suffering footman – whose polite expression had begun to slip into something definitely put-upon – to bring the note down to Patrick.

 _This is ridiculous,_ the note read. _You do realise they’ve put you in my mother’s place, don’t you?_

“Did your parents always eat in solitary splendour at opposite ends of the table?” Patrick called, and Pete grinned.

“Only when Mama appeared for dinner,” he retorted easily. “Normally she had it in her room. She- No. No, really, this is _ridiculous_.” He gestured to the overworked footman and said something inaudible, before moving back up the table to Patrick and sitting back down next to him. “I wasn’t about to spend an entire meal like that,” he said, as the footman re-laid the elaborate place-setting in front of him. “Thank you,” he told the footman. “And when we’re done with our meal, would you send Hodges in again? Thank you.”

Patrick couldn’t help but laugh at him. “Look at you, making all this extra work for the footmen.”

“Psh, extra work,” Pete retorted. “There’s no one here ninety percent of the time, and I keep the place fully staffed, they never have anything to do. And when I tell Hodges we’re going to be eating in the breakfast room from now on, they’ll have even _less_ work.”

“The morning room?”

“Well, it’s that or insist that they lay the table like this, and there’s no guarantee that they’ll actually do it. And if we eat in the morning room, we won’t to deal have the enormous pastoral scene with the judgemental shepherds.”

“They do look a bit supercilious, don’t they?” Patrick said thoughtfully, eyeing the enormous quantity of food being put on the table in front of them. It was only by remembering that the servants would eat whatever they didn’t that allowed him to ignore any of it – part of him couldn’t forget not knowing where the next meal would come from. “So,” he said, as much to distract himself as anything else. “Your mother didn’t often come down for dinner?”

“No,” Pete nodded, helping himself to some of the stewed leeks. “Father liked the Highleyton Routine. He would never have abandoned it, even though Mama hated it. Her family was much less formal, you know.”

“No,” Patrick said patiently, allowing Pete to put a slice of English rarebit on his plate. “I don’t know. How could I? It isn’t as though I rushed off to look you up in the _Peerage_ the moment I met you.”

“Most people do,” Pete said cheerfully. 

“Well, I didn’t,” Patrick retorted smartly. He didn’t mention that he’d been much too nervous about their relationship at that point to do anything of the kind. “So I’ve got no idea who your mother’s family was.”

“Oh, they weren’t anyone, really,” Pete said airily. “The aristocratic grandeur was all on my father’s side. Mama’s side had all the money. And all the talent for money - they were bankers.” He paused, and poured Patrick a glass of claret, which Patrick accepted out of good manners and with no intention of drinking it. “She was from Jamaica,” Pete added quietly. “The doctors said the air here didn’t agree with her, but honestly, I think this place just stifled her. Father tried everything – took her to Italy, Switzerland, Spain – nothing worked. So when I started… well, being the way I am, he sent me to India. By then I think he’d got it into his head that foreign parts cured you.”

“And your mother?” Patrick asked, morbidly fascinated, poking at his rarebit. The rich, heavy meal held no interest for him, but Pete’s tale – now he was actually talking, not just bouncing from flippancy to bitterness and back again – held his attention like nothing else.

“Rheumatoid fever,” Pete said briefly. “She died about three months after I arrived in India – as near as I can tell. The letter reached me about six months late – I was in Mysore at the time, and getting post was difficult.” He took a forkful of leeks and put them down again without eating them. “Not, I think, that I would have been welcome at the funeral. My sister wrote as well, you know – Father was apparently very changed by Mama’s death. I don’t think he wanted to see me.”

They fell silent as the servants removed the largely-untouched first course, and Pete seemed more cheerful with the arrival of lamb cutlets and sweetbreads. In any case, he didn’t return to the subject of his mother’s death, and Patrick had too much tact to press him on a clearly-painful subject, choosing instead to let Pete grill him for stories of Westcote. He laughed uproariously at an old story of hide-and-seek gone wrong, and expressed intelligent (if amused) sympathy when Patrick told him about his first lessons on Kevin’s vicious hand-me-down pony. Patrick was happy to tell the stories – he’d do a lot worse than make himself look ridiculous if it made Pete happier.

After dinner, once Pete had relayed his instructions about meals to the long-suffering and recalcitrant Hodges, feeling lethargic and sleepy, they adjourned upstairs to what Pete called the ‘family sitting room’, a pleasant south-facing room accessibly only through another suite of rooms. This area of the house seemed somehow less awe-inspiringly grand than the rest of it, despite its meticulous cleanliness – the rooms had a comfortable, lived-in feel that everywhere else completely lacked.

The sitting room itself was comfortable and pleasantly cool, shaded from the setting sun, and someone had arranged a great tangle of early roses in the fireplace. Pete sat himself down at the writing desk by the window, and Patrick chose a book for himself from the obviously well-loved collection on a small table nearby, settling himself down to read in the easy silence.

He’d had every intention of paying attention to Mr Donne, but inexplicably found himself watching Pete instead. He had no idea what Pete was writing – a letter, perhaps, or more of the mysterious poetry he refused to show Patrick – but he was engrossed in it, pausing every now and then to tap his quill on the paper before loading it up with ink and starting to scribble away again.

Patrick only had a profile view of his face, but he could see how intent Pete was, a single-minded focus he was sure most of Society had no idea Pete even possessed. For a treacherous moment, he wondered what it would be like to have that focus directed at him, and had to drop his eyes hurriedly back to his book to hide his flush.

_Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time…_

Clearly Mr Donne would be no help whatsoever.

He went back to watching Pete, taking in the line of his shoulders under the blue superfine of his coat, the darkness of his skin against the starched white of his cravat-

Then Pete glanced over and smiled, and Patrick instantly went scarlet. There was a humming in his ears, and though he looked away quickly, he could feel Pete’s eyes on him like a brand. When he finally looked up again, Pete had gone back to writing, but there was a scarlet flush up the back of his neck.

So this was falling in love, Patrick thought dizzily. He hadn’t thought it would be so sudden, or so noticeable, but then it had been coming on for a very long time. The only real difference was now he knew. Now he knew that all he really wanted was the chance to spend quiet days like these with Pete for the rest of his life.

It was a shame, then, that he was unlikely to get any such thing. At some point, his idyll here would come to an end, and he would have to go back to his real life. And he and Pete would be friends, of course they would be, nothing could change that, but unfortunately that wasn’t what Patrick wanted anymore.

The silence was less comfortable now, oddly charged, and it didn’t surprise Patrick at all when Pete threw his pen down and came over to the chairs. “Where is the tea-tray?” Pete wondered aloud, and threw himself into the chair next to Patrick. “What are you reading?” Patrick turned the book over so Pete could read the spine, and Pete nodded. “My father was a fan of Donne,” he said lightly. “It was about the only thing we agreed on. _For God’s sake, hold your tongue, and let me love_ \- proper strong, Anglo-Saxon stuff.”

“I haven’t read that one yet,” Patrick said politely, trying very hard to keep his voice level.

“Which one are you reading?” 

That was a ticklish question – Patrick had no idea what poem he was reading, and had to check. “The Sun Rising, apparently,” he said, trying to sound as off-hand and casual as he could.

“Poetry normally makes more sense when you read it out, you know,” Pete said slyly, and Patrick raised an eyebrow.

“I am not reading you poetry,” he said firmly. “Do it yourself if you want it read aloud.”

“But I don’t sound as good as you,” Pete whined, and Patrick shut his book with a snap. 

“It’d do you good to try,” he said repressively, holding out the book. Pete took it, but laid it on the table, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms, one eyebrow raised, practically daring Patrick to do something about it.

Patrick wasn’t rising to that bait. “No,” he said firmly. “I’m not falling for that one twice. Why don’t you tell me what you’re writing, if you’re so desperate for a distraction?”

Amazingly, Pete actually looked uncomfortable. “It’s not really – I don’t – it’s private, alright?” he muttered finally, and Patrick stared at him. “What? You’ll laugh at me!”

“You didn’t laugh at my twiddlings on the piano,” Patrick pointed out. “Come on, even if I wasn’t your friend, I’d be a bastard if I laughed at you.”

“Patrick, your ‘twiddlings’ are extraordinary,” Pete told him dryly. “My scribblings are trash.”

“Clearly someone else should be the judge of that,” Patrick said, aware of a wheedling note in his own voice.

“No,” Pete said firmly, and Patrick sat back, a little surprised. Pete softened instantly. “Not yet, anyway. And I’d like you to read one of the ones I’m actually proud of, alright? These are – these are nothing. Yet.”

“Yet?” Patrick asked, intrigued.

Pete looked conscious, fiddling with one cuff. “They all start out like this,” he mumbled. “This great stream of words. And then I have to pick out the good ones.” He broke off, and said, with renewed energy, “Have you read anything by Mr Lovell Beddoes?”

“Hell of a name,” Patrick observed. “No, I don’t think so. I, er. I haven’t had the opportunity to read much poetry.”

“He’s very new,” Pete said enthusiastically. “But I’m an enormous fan.” He looked suddenly, absurdly bashful. “I’ve written to him, but I’m told he’s not one for public applause. I should have known, really, from his poetry. ‘I walk within the brilliance of another’s thought, as in a glory – I was dark before’… Fantastic. ‘Then love came, like the out-bursting of a trodden star’, wonderful.”

Why, Patrick thought desperately, had he thought poetry was a good idea? It was a terrible idea. “Magnificent,” he said weakly. It felt like every word was catching him on the raw. Worse was the way Pete practically lit up with every line – he was stupidly endearing in his enthusiasm, and Patrick could feel himself melting into a kind of helpless affection which was all the worse for being useless. It wasn’t as though Pete would really welcome finding out Patrick was foolishly in love with him.

**

Even by next afternoon, Patrick wasn’t completely over his self-revelation of the previous evening. Apparently, love made normal everyday interactions very awkward. He’d almost knocked over the salt at lunch and had blushed and stuttered so often that Pete was starting to look worried and ask concerned questions about whether Patrick could be coming down with something – Patrick had had to make some excuse and flee to his room to hyperventilate for the rest of the afternoon.

Interactions at dinner didn’t get any easier. They were in the morning room as Pete had decreed, but that just meant they were closer to each other and dinner felt unwontedly intimate. Patrick dealt with it by staring fixedly at his plate most of the time, and at a spot over Pete’s left shoulder whenever the conversation required him to look up.

For the first time in weeks, he left Pete to enjoy the port by himself and wandered up to the family sitting room by himself. Highleyton felt strangely threatening when he was alone after dark, despite the rafts of expensive white-wax candles, and indeed the servants who appeared to pop up whenever he least expected them. He interrupted the maid who brought the tea-tray, and they’d both nearly shrieked.

Left alone in the sitting room, he poured out a cup of tea and sat down to have a stern talk with himself.

This was ridiculous. It was _Pete_ , for heaven’s sake. Admittedly, Patrick was proficient enough at making things awkward for himself, but he was also making things awkward for Pete, and that wasn’t on. The way he saw it, he had two options – he could either confess all and risk humiliation, or he could pretend everything was fine and try and act normally for the rest of his life.

Well, Patrick had never been afraid of a challenge.

And what exactly would he be hoping to achieve by telling Pete anything? Patrick had no illusions – not only was Pete above him socially, a bona-fide-aristocrat to Patrick’s barely-gentry, but his social circle was so much wider than Patrick’s. He had looks, wealth, influence and excellent birth; he could pick and choose. Just because he and Patrick were friends, didn’t mean Pete would throw himself away on a nobody of just-gentle birth, let alone one so drastically impoverished. Pete’s position alone meant he was practically honour-bound to marry very well indeed. Like a Beauty. Or a Duke. Someone manifestly not Patrick.

So, keeping silent was for the best. He’d probably grow out of this infatuation eventually. 

He thought for a long minute. Was he even really in love with Pete? He’d isolated himself for so long, it was entirely possible that he was in love with the idea of Pete rather than the man himself. He could easily be in love with the fact that Pete had come along and, to all intents and purposes, rescued him, if only for a little while. Or he could be in love with the first person he’d spent any length of time with, for the last year or so. Or, if he was being brutally honest with himself, there was no small chance he was in love with Pete’s money and the comforts and ease it had brought him.

He considered that for a moment, then dismissed it. No – even if Pete had been as penniless as he was himself, he’d still be in love with Pete. His spontaneity, how quick he was to laugh, his generosity with his time… it was, Patrick reflected ruefully, terrifyingly easy to love Pete, and all too easy to be hurt when Pete chose someone else. As he inevitably would, and the worst part was, he would still be Patrick’s friend. As easy as Pete was to love, he loved just as much in return. He had a heart easily big enough for all his friends, and he was – as Patrick knew – loyal to a fault.

In any case, it was unfair to take Patrick’s own difficulties out on Pete. It wasn’t in any way fair to expect Pete to put up with this from his friend – and they _were_ friends. Patrick had a duty to behave like one.

So, when Pete made his way up from the dining room, looking rather cautious, Patrick greeted him with as normal a smile as he could manage.

“Tea?” he offered, and Pete nodded quickly. Patrick poured and handed it to him, and Pete took a grateful sip, sinking into the chair opposite Patrick.

“You’re the only person who makes my tea the way I like it,” he said, and offered Patrick a careful smile. “Even Greta makes it too strong. Are you alright?” He had leant back in his chair, and Patrick carefully did not notice the laughter lines creasing the corner of his eyes and the languid slouch of his body in the chair.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Sorry about earlier – I’ve had an awful headache all day.”

“The heat,” Pete suggested politely.

“Yes. Probably, yes.”

“Well, if you weren’t feeling too awful tomorrow, I should probably pay my courtesy visits before too long. You don’t have to come!” he added hastily. “But I’d like you to. Our – sorry, my – only near neighbours are Lady Florzil and Mr and Mrs Turner, but I should probably make the effort to call on Sir William and Lady Hyde, or they’ll set the county alight by saying I was neglectful.”

Patrick went cold then very, very hot. “Are they Catholic?” he asked. “And do they have a daughter?”

Pete eyed him. “I think they’re Catholic,” he said slowly. “And I think they have a daughter. To be honest, I find it difficult to remember daughters and sons when they haven’t been thrown at me in a ballroom. Why?”

“I’d be honoured to come and visit your neighbours,” Patrick said. “But I should probably write to Megan before I visit the Hydes with you – I think she’s staying with them.”

Pete sat up. “Your sister’s in Buckinghamshire?” he asked, almost demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me? She could have come to stay with us, I’m sure you’d love to see her, and I’d love to meet her-”

“Pete-” Patrick said, then broke off, awkward. How could he possibly explain it to Pete? There were days when he felt crushed under the sheer weight of Pete’s thoughtless, painfully kind generosity. There was no way he could ask for more of it.

Pete had misinterpreted his silence, and there was a hard, miserable look in his eyes. “I can be trusted with her, you know,” he said finally. “I’m not a monster. And she’s your _sister_. Surely you know by now that I’d never do anything to hurt yo-”

“That’s not what I was thinking!” Patrick said quickly. “But Pete – dear God, do you think I don’t know how generous you’ve been to me? I couldn’t possibly ask you to host my sister on top of everything else-”

“Patrick, I would do a great deal more to see you happy,” Pete said, with heart-breaking sincerity, and Patrick had to look away to maintain his composure.

“She’s happy enough where she is,” he said, then repeated his long-held mantra. “And maybe she can come home next holiday.”

Pete looked at him, a soft expression in his eyes. “She can come here whenever she likes – she can come and stay here, if you want. It’s not as though there aren’t enough rooms. Frankly, she could be here already, and I probably wouldn’t know. You could have had a ball here every night and I’d probably be none the wiser.”

Patrick flushed and looked down again. “I promise I haven’t been planning any balls.”

Pete smiled. “Oh damn. The staff will be desolate – Hodges is always telling me about how much better it was in the old days, when Mama and Father apparently held balls every other week. I suppose one day I’ll manage to lower his expectations far enough.” He grinned, wide and conspiratorial, the candlelight bringing out the gold in his skin, and Patrick stood, abruptly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, when Pete’s face fell. “The headache, you know. I think I’d better try and sleep it off.”

He made good his escape, and made his way to his room for another stern talk.

**

Patrick had gone to bed in the hopes that a good sleep would give him a little more perspective, but he woke, hard and panting at about three in the morning, sheets twisted around him. He had only the vaguest recollections of his dream, and if he hadn’t been hard, and felt the faint sense of embarrassment that came after one of these dreams, he might have been tempted to put it out of his mind and go back to sleep.

But someone had been touching him. Almost without thinking, his hand slid to his cock and he muffled his gasp in the pillow. He could still feel someone touching him, and the lingering sensation of someone’s mouth at his neck, hot and wet with just a suggestion of teeth. It was ridiculous, the hands and mouth on him hadn't belonged to anyone but his mind instantly flicked to Pete - Pete's mouth on his neck, Pete's hands sliding down him to pull them closer together.

Patrick shuddered, his hips jerking reflexively as he thought about it, about Pete biting his neck, Pete's hand on him rather than his own. He was coming almost before he knew it, quick and unsatisfactory, and he lay there for a long moment until his breathing settled again, before he went to find a cloth to clean himself up. 

For a second, after he was safely back in bed, he wondered what it would be like if Pete really were to touch him – if he were to kiss Pete, what it would be like to go to bed with Pete. Would he be gentle? Demanding? Patrick had no idea, but for one moment, he ached with the desire to find out.

Still, he thought, he had _absolutely no business thinking about it_.

This was going too far.

**

When Pete came down the next morning, he found Patrick already at the breakfast table, scarlet-faced and making a valiant attempt to hide behind his tea-cup.

“Are you alright?” he asked, concerned.

“Headache!” Patrick shrilled. Then, unbelievably, he flushed even further. “Sorry,” he said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I’m not feeling very well this morning.”

That makes two of us, Pete thought, trying his best to smile. “Don’t tell Mrs Errol,” he said lightly. “She likes to baby everyone. You’ll find yourself in bed with eggs and soldiers before you know it.”

Patrick laughed, looking a little more natural. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I haven’t had anyone mop my fevered brow in years.”

Pete grinned. “What, does Mr Trohman not nurse you tenderly through your slightest cold?”

“Does Mr – what is your valet’s name? I’ve only ever heard you call him Andy.”

“Hurley. Not to be confused with Andy Mrotek, the butler. And no, Andy thinks that any illness I might have is probably due to the inherent physical feebleness of the landed class, and would probably use it to kill me off and turn Highleyton into an enclave of social equality.” He shrugged. “Though that’s probably unfair. He might try and keep me alive to turn me into a useful member of society.”

“Heaven forfend,” Patrick said dryly. “Anyway, you needn’t worry – I don’t think I need to be sent to bed.” Pete turned to the sideboard, helping himself to eggs and ham so Patrick wouldn’t see his expression. “Aren’t we supposed to be making courtesy calls today? I wouldn’t pass up the chance to meet your neighbours.”

“I would,” Pete said frankly, seating himself and accepting a cup of coffee from Patrick. “Perhaps you could go by yourself – I’m sure we could come up with some excuse. Maybe we could pretend I’ve got a broken leg, something like that.” He paused, adding milk to his coffee, and shooting Patrick a sly grin. “If it gets me out of bread-and-butter visits, I’d be willing to _actually_ break my leg.”

Patrick gave him a quelling look. “Coward,” he taunted. “Faint-heart.”

“Every time.” Pete accepted the taunting with equanimity. “I’m not above a little cowardice now and then. I came to Highleyton to get away from London and all the silly social games.”

“You came to London to escape the heat,” Patrick corrected. “And my mama always said courtesy calls should only last a quarter of an hour – it’s hardly a great sacrifice.”

“Maybe not,” Pete said darkly. “But then they’ll return the call, and you can bet they won’t spend a mere fifteen minutes with us. _And_ we’ll have to be in for callers. I hate all that nonsense.”

“Such are the burdens of the Marquis of Highleyton,” Patrick told him. “The sooner we do it, the sooner it’s done.”

“Ah, but,” Pete said, pointing his knife at Patrick, “you haven’t written to your sister yet. We can’t call on the Hydes before you’ve done that, and we can’t call on anyone until we can call on everyone. It would be the height of rudeness to call on Sir William and his lady days after we’ve called on everyone else.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow. “I’ll write to her this morning,” he promised.

Scenting a reprieve, Pete was prepared to be gracious. “I’ll frank it for you when you’re done.”

Patrick nodded, and busied himself with his own breakfast for a few minutes, letting a comfortable silence settle over the table. Finally, he set down his knife, and sat back, cup in hand. “So,” he said, easily. “What _do_ you want to do today? Apart from courtesy calls, is there anything you should be doing whilst you’re here?”

“I put most things in order after my first visit,” Pete said thoughtfully. “Though I should probably meet with the estate manager at some point. Just to make sure everything’s running smoothly.”

“Isn’t that the job of your agent?” Patrick asked, frowning. “Shouldn’t he be keeping you up to date?” 

“Normally, of course, he would be,” Pete agreed, pushing his plate away. “But I’m between agents at the moment. My father’s man had very different ideas about what I needed to be told, and we parted ways – the man I want for the job is in India at the moment. He should be back shortly – he was my business manager there, and he’s training up his replacement.” He shrugged, and smiled at Patrick. “But you shouldn’t let me bore you with this nonsense.”

“It’s not boring,” Patrick told him, and though Pete eyed him closely, he seemed to be completely sincere. “Maybe it would be if I knew it all, but I’ve never had to run an estate, let alone an estate the size of Highleyton.”

“It’s a headache, mainly,” Pete said frankly. “And not one I want to dwell on today. Let’s do something irresponsible – there’s a rope-swing in the woods, we could go out and find it-”

“If you think I’m actually going to let you try and break your leg, you have another thought coming, my lord,” Patrick told him firmly, grinning at him. It was nice, Pete thought, wistfully, to wake up to breakfast with Patrick, easy conversation and that damn friendly smile. He wished dimly that he could look forward to forever – but Patrick was hardly likely to want to marry a man who’d made him feel like a prostitute. 

Still, at least he’d managed to get over whatever awkwardness had been plaguing Patrick earlier. 

“We could explore the grounds properly?” He offered, rather than blurt out a half-baked demand that Patrick live with him and be his love. “I could show you round the gardens – we could see if we could catch out one of the gardeners.”

Patrick nodded. “And it might be cooler outside. I think today’s going to be another scorcher, and I’d rather not go back to the ballroom, if you don’t mind.”

Pete slanted a wicked grin at him. “You’re afraid you might have to play that piano again, aren’t you?”

Patrick considered it. “If we spend too long in the East Wing, I might cave to a moment of weakness,” he agreed finally. “It’s best not to risk it.”

“Then we’ll go to the gardens,” Pete decided. “We’ll steal some food from the kitchens, and make a day of it. What do you think?”

“You can steal from the kitchens,” Patrick said firmly. “While I write to Megan. If I steal from your cook, they really will think I’m below the salt, and then you’ll never hear the end of it.”

“You’re all heart, Mr Stump,” Pete said sincerely, and Patrick laughed.

“Aren’t I just?” he stood, putting his napkin down, and smiled down at Pete. “I’ll go and write my letter now – I’ll be in. Well. One of the rooms. I can’t tell the difference yet.”

“I’ll find you,” Pete promised, and managed not to add that he would always find Patrick. 

**

Patrick wandered the house until he found a room with a writing desk, complete with full inkwell and sealing-wafers, but finding what he needed proved to be a great deal easier than actually starting his letter. What did he want to say to Megan? He needed to tell her that she could expect a visit from him, but it was awkward, telling her that they were in the same county, but she couldn’t come and stay.

Of course, she would understand that Patrick couldn’t go inviting people to someone else’s house, that was never in any doubt – Megan had been brought up properly, just like Patrick. But Patrick _wanted_ to see his sister. All of the sacrifices he’d made over the last few years had been to make sure that Megan suffered as little as possible from the vast reductions in their circumstances, but sometimes he felt that maybe he’d gone too far. After all, making sure she was materially comfortable meant nothing when he had effectively cut her off from her family.

And there was always the problem of what he would do when she left school. While she was there, things were more or less alright – but when she left, she’d be living at home, or in the bare, gutted house they could currently call home. He wouldn’t be paying her school fees, that was true, but while the money would make things more comfortable at home, it wouldn’t shield her from the stark truth of their circumstances that Patrick had tried so hard to hide from her. She knew they weren’t well off, but she had no idea of the lengths Patrick had gone to to keep them afloat. When she was at home again, she wouldn’t be able to help noticing.

More than anything, Patrick wanted to make sure she didn’t feel it was up to her to marry well and save him from anything. He’d hoped that he could marry himself off to someone well-off and keep Megan safe that way, but he’d done a piss-poor job of it so far. His time with Pete would have been the perfect time to angle for a husband or wife, but he’d been so caught up with Pete during that time, and in any case, he’d thought for most of it that he’d end up the sort of person no respectable man or woman would touch with a bargepole. And now he was in love with Pete, and that was another problem to contend with. He’d always known that love was very unlikely to play any part in his marriage, but he hadn’t thought he’d have to get married while in love with someone else.

Not that there was anyone he could marry. When they got back to London, he’d have to try harder, his feelings and wishes be damned.

He shook his head to clear it, and focused. None of this soul-searching would help him write his letter.

_Dear Megan,_

_I hope you’re well and enjoying your holidays – are you doing anything in particular for Easter? I have to confess, I haven’t given anything up for Lent, unless you can count keeping up a proper correspondence with you. I’ve been so busy these last few weeks, I don’t seem to have the time to sit down and write to you properly the way I used to. Forgive me? I will try to do better in future._

_This is just a quick note to say, against all the odds, we are actually in the same county at the moment. Pete decided at the last minute to make a flying visit to his estate here in Buckinghamshire, and he said Sir William and Lady Hyde were near neighbours of his. Are these your hosts? If so, we will be making a courtesy call on them soon, so I can actually see you for once during your holidays. Are you happy with the Hydes? I hope you are enjoying yourself, and that you aren’t doing anything that would make me blush if I heard about it. We’re well here at Highleyton – it’s very beautiful. I wish you could see it – perhaps if Sir William makes a return visit, you could come with him? It is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen._

_I had better go – we’re going out into the grounds today, and Pete will probably get bored and wander off without me if I leave him too long. But I hope you’re well, and I hope I will see you soon._

_All my love,_

_Patrick_.

He sealed the letter and put her name on it – he would have to wait until he could re-read her letter to find the address. 

The sun was well up, and the day was already beginning to be hot as he headed out into the hall to wait for Pete – the hall was the best place to be, most days. High-ceilinged and tiled with marble, it didn’t keep the heat like most of the other rooms, and Pete would probably turn up sooner or later-

“Psst!” 

Sooner rather than later, apparently. Patrick turned on the spot to see Pete beckoning to him from the library, looking furtive.

“What on earth is wrong with you?” he demanded, obediently coming over to see what Pete was up to. 

“Not so loud! I have food. If we run now, no one will catch us and make us do anything – like take a carriage. Or servants. Or anything else unpleasant.”

“Alright,” Patrick said, long-suffering, letting himself be caught up in the madness once again. “I’m going to grab a couple of books to take with us – in case we get bored.”

Pete, his pilfered food clutched in an old string bag, frowned at him. “I could never get bored when I’m with you!” he said, betrayed.

“Lucky you,” Patrick retorted. “But sometimes I get tired of being your personal monkey. I’m going to need a book. Do you have any recommendations?”

“Is this really the time to start faffing about books?” Pete demanded, and Patrick shot him a look.

“I could do it more loudly, if you like,” he said pointedly. “Or maybe ask Mr Hodges for his opinion.”

“Fine,” Pete said, long-suffering, taking two or three books off the shelves and slotting them roughly into the bag. “Can we go now? Or someone will insist that I review the boundary-maps or something equally awful, and we’ll never escape.”

He made a beeline for the French windows, and Patrick trailed after him, blinking a little in the bright sunshine reflected up off the warm stone of the terrace. 

“Come on,” Pete told him, taking his arm and leading him down the steps into the garden proper. “Let’s leave this place behind for the day.”

**

“Patrick.” 

“Hmm?” Patrick turned a page of his book, not really listening. It was hot – almost too hot – and outside wasn’t much cooler than inside: the sky was a brilliant, aching blue and everything seemed  
unnaturally still. Even the birds were quiet, and Patrick had thought the birds at Highleyton could wake the dead. He and Pete had started out on the lawn, and then moved under increasingly patchy bits of shade as the day grew hotter until they’d wound up down by the plunge pool. Pete had unceremoniously stripped off his shoes and stockings and dunked his feet in the water before nagging Patrick to do the same, which he did, after some dithering. He had to admit, it felt wonderful.

They’d brought a pile of books and stolen some food from the kitchen so they wouldn’t have to traipse across Pete’s vast estate to get back for lunch, and Patrick had been looking forward to a quiet afternoon reading, relaxing and generally feeling less on edge than he would were they actually indoors. But Pete apparently wasn’t in the mood for reading.

“Patrick.”

“What?” Patrick said distractedly, mind still mostly on the book. 

“I’m bored.”

“Oh dear. I’m so sad for you,” Patrick told him.

“So we should do something!” Pete brought his legs out of the water with a splash, flicking some water onto Patrick’s book. “We still haven’t picked out a horse for you to ride here – we could go down to the stables and see we’ve got any you like!”

Patrick stared at him. “I am not riding anywhere in this weather.”

“It’s not that hot!” Pete protested.

“It is that hot. And I want to read.”

Pete sighed and flopped backwards onto the stone. “Fine, fine.”

Patrick shifted his feet in the water, trying to concentrate on his book. Pete was in a strange mood today, all odd angles and energy. Patrick had no idea what that meant, but he’d decided to go with it. Either Pete would tell him what was up or it would burn itself out. In any case, it was good to see Pete relaxed, something which he’d rarely been since they’d arrived at Highleyton.

“Patrick?” 

Perhaps ‘relaxed’ wasn’t quite the right word. “What?”

“Patrick.”

“Yes.”

“There’s a river about a mile away – it’s really beautiful and it’d be so much cooler there and I think we should go.”

Patrick sighed, closing his book and looking down at Pete. Pete was staring at him with an expression of earnest innocence – something Patrick knew by now not to trust the slightest bit. “You can go if you want,” he said blandly, opening up his book again and making a show of dropping his eyes to the page.

“Patrick. Trick. Trickster. Entertain me.”

“I’m the guest,” Patrick said, rereading the same sentence for the fifth time. “Aren’t you supposed to be entertaining _me_?”

Pete snorted. “Please. You waived guest rights a long time ago, Mr Stump. We practically live together. You don’t get special treatment. No, as the only other person here, you need to amuse and divert me and stop me from being bored.”

“Did you regress in age in the last five minutes?” Patrick wondered aloud rather than think about Pete’s comment about them _living together_.

“No, but I might die of boredom in the next five. _Patrick_.”

“Oh my god, what?”

“Nothing. I just like saying your name. And I’m bored. Patrick. Patrick. Patrick.”

Patrick snapped his book shut and stared at him in exasperation. “What is _wrong_ with you today?”

He thought he saw a flicker pass over Pete’s face, but within a second it was replaced by Pete’s usual grin. “Nothing, apart from a severe case of boredom. We’ve been out here for hours and I’m so bored, Patrick.”

“We’ve been out here barely an hour and I’m not bored at all,” Patrick told him, not bothering to open his book again. There were some battles he couldn’t win.

“You’re a saint,” Pete agreed, lying back and flinging an arm over his eyes. “And before you even suggest reading anything, I have read all the books we brought with us, including that one. Everybody dies at the end.”

“Thanks, Pete.”

“ _Now_ I remember why I hate the country,” Pete sat up again, hunching his shoulders and staring morosely into the distance. “It’s not because of this house or anything to do with my childhood, it’s because there’s _nothing to do_. Oh my god, and we’ve got _days_ of tedium ahead of us. I might just go back to London and-“

Patrick had no idea why he did it. It was as though some little monster from his childhood had taken hold of him for a split second. He put down his book, placed his hand in the centre of Pete’s back and shoved him face-first into the plunge pool. Pete fell in with a spluttered curse and a splash, and Patrick watched as a trail of bubbles made its way to the surface. For a moment he worried that Pete had been wearing something valuable that had just been ruined, but apparently retribution was swifter than his regrets – a pair of ice-cold hands grabbed him by the shins and dragged him into the water. 

Compared to the heat outside, the plunge pool was brain-numbingly cold and Patrick yelped as he hit the water. Pete let him go and he floundered a little before balancing on tiptoe – the pool wasn’t that deep, and standing on his toes, his head was above the water. He blinked furiously to get the water out of his eyes, and when his vision cleared, Pete was in front of him, hair plastered to his head and water dripping off the end of his nose.

“Patrick Stump, you scoundrel,” Pete said, grinning. “That was low.”

“I’m not sorry,” Patrick said as defiantly as he could while his teeth were chattering. Up until a minute ago, he would have loved to be a fraction cooler, but he was rapidly rethinking that opinion.

“Nor am I. I’m not bored anymore. Soaked, but not bored.” Pete looked at him closely and frowned. “Are you cold? Come on, it’s warm enough to air-dry.”

He drifted over to the side of the pool and hauled himself out, rolling onto the grass. Patrick followed, standing up and trying to wring water out of his shirt.

Pete smirked at him. “That won’t help. Think of it as a just punishment for your crime.”

Patrick glared at him. “I thought I did you a favour. You just said you aren’t bored anymore!”

“I’m not, and I’m also a lot cooler than I was. And to show how grateful I am, I’ll be quiet for a whole five minutes, how about it?” Pete stretched out on the grass and shut his eyes. He looked properly relaxed, the aura of frantic energy gone, and Patrick smiled, leaning back on his elbows and letting the sun warm him again. 

He soon went from feeling too cold to too hot again. His shirt clung to his skin, which just made it worse, and he eyed the plunge pool again, wondering whether jumping in again would be a bad idea. True to his word, Pete had been quiet for the last few minutes. Patrick glanced at him and smiled; he was sprawled on the grass, eyes half-shut. He looked as though he was ten seconds away from drifting off, his breathing slow and steady. About to pick up his book again, Patrick frowned as something caught his eye. There were marks under Pete’s shirt. Patrick glanced at his own sleeves – perhaps Pete had scuffed up against the wall of the plunge pool – but they were clean. Not to mention Pete’s shirt was high-quality lawn and had stood up a great deal better to its dunking in the pool. The faint black marks almost looked like a pattern. Patrick leaned forward for a closer look.

“I can feel you staring,” Pete said. His eyes were still half-shut and he was watching Patrick from under his lashes. Patrick felt himself flush, feeling somehow as though he’d been caught out. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Patrick said lamely. “I was just – what’s on your shirt?”

Pete opened his eyes properly and craned his head to look down at the rest of his body. “Nothing?” he said, sounding confused.

“No, there, see?” Patrick leaned forward, his hand hovering just above Pete’s arm. “There’s a line or something – I just wondered if you’d-“

“Oh!” Pete sat up, confusion gone. “You mean these.” He shoved up his sleeves and Patrick gaped. Pete’s arms were covered in tattoos, a swirl of patterns and shapes snaking up from his wrists and disappearing under his shirt. Pete looked at him, eyebrows raised. “You meant these, right?”

“Um,” it took Patrick a moment to find his voice. “Yes. I suppose I did. I – never knew you had tattoos!”

He didn’t mean for it to come out as accusatory as it did, but Pete grinned. “I know. It’s odd; normally if I’ve known someone ten minutes you can guarantee I’ll have taken my shirt off at least twice. It’s rather part and parcel of being friends with me.”

“I’ve heard that nakedness is something of a forte of yours,” Patrick agreed. “I just don’t think it’s ever, ah, come up in our conversation.” Pete dropped his eyes and Patrick felt his cheeks go red; no doubt it wasn’t just him remembering exactly why neither of them would have been keen to remove much clothing in the other’s presence, particularly over the last few weeks. He swallowed and continued, “When did you get them?”

Pete pushed his sleeves up more firmly so Patrick could inspect them. “Oh, not all at once. This is a result of many years’ dedication. I did get a few on my first voyage to India, but some I’ve had for years.” He paused, contemplative. “The ones on my arms are quite recent, actually.”

“You’ve got _more_?” Patrick squeaked and Pete grinned at him.

“Mr Stump, I had no idea you were a fan. Yes, I’ve got more. I started my collection even before I left Highleyton. I’ll show you sometime – not right now, though. Not outdoors. It’ll have to wait until we get somewhere more private.”

Patrick felt himself flush again, for an entirely different reason. “I look forward to it,” he said formally, his mouth suddenly dry. _Somewhere more private_ with _Pete_. It was times like this he was incredibly aware that it was only the two of them, and guiltily aware of how awkward he could make things if he let himself.

So, no. He would behave properly.

"They're amazing," Patrick said when the silence grew too much for him.

"Didn't you want any of your own?" Pete asked, running his eyes over Patrick's skin. Patrick shivered.

"I did once," he admitted. "When I was younger and first found out about them."

"You should have got some."

"Where from? There's not exactly a demand for tattoos in Herefordshire. And anyway," he shrugged. "It probably wouldn't have suited me." It definitely suited Pete. Now Patrick had seen them, he couldn't imagine Pete without them. "It would have been nice, though. To walk around wearing art. Yours are beautiful."

"You're beautiful as you are, ink or not," Pete told him with one of those smiles that lit up his whole face and made Patrick's stomach flip.

Patrick pulled a face, embarrassed. "Your opinion," he muttered. 

Pete sat up, frowning. "Oh no," he said, pointing a stern finger at Patrick. "If I'm not allowed to do myself down, you're certainly not. I will drag you in front of a mirror myself and keep you there until you appreciate how perfect you are."

Patrick didn't quite know what to say to that, so he ducked his head, cheeks red, and muttered, "You'll have to catch me first."

"I think we've already established I can. But I won't keep you unless you want to be kept." Pete's voice was casual but his eyes were serious. Patrick wondered whether the conversation had taken a left turn into something very different without him realising.

"I... suppose it depends on where you plan on keeping me," he said, striving for lightness.

"Oh, I can think of a number of places," Pete said just as lightly, but his eyes were very dark. Patrick shivered. 

"It would be stupid to jump in the pool again, wouldn't it?" he said, changing the subject before he did something fatal like throw himself bodily at the Marquis of Highleyton. "I feel like I'm roasting."

Pete blinked and the dark intensity was gone from his eyes. "It is very hot," he agreed. "We should probably get you inside before you burn."

Patrick winced. "It's probably too late," he said gloomily. "I'm going to be a very fetching shade of lobster tomorrow."

"I'll arrange for an ice-bath," Pete told him earnestly. "And I'll sing to you. Soothing lullabies while I bathe your fevered brow."

"And there was I thinking I had nothing to look forward to," Patrick said deadpan and grinned when Pete looked mournful.

"Nobody appreciates me," he sniffed and ran back in the direction of the house, leaving Patrick to gather up the books.

**

They spent the evening chatting in the family sitting room. Pete had drunk a little too much port, despite a lingering suspicion that that probably wasn’t a good idea just at this moment, and he found himself in that dangerous, over-voluble mood that never boded well. It wasn’t so much that he was suddenly chattier and more out-going than normal – that was fine. It was the sense of being faintly out-of-control that got to him, the feeling that he wasn’t quite gauging his audience correctly, even though his audience was _Patrick_ , who had forgiven Pete for far worse things than talking too much and laughing too loudly.

The feeling of slightly manic restlessness had been with him all day – for the last few days, in fact, he realised, as he got into bed. But today had been such a good day, with Patrick out in the grounds, watching Patrick relax the further they got from the house. He remembered the way Patrick’s gaze had lingered on his tattoos, and though he was tired, he smiled a little to himself. Patrick might not be in love with him, but he certainly wasn’t indifferent to him either. Perhaps – perhaps things weren’t as hopeless as he’d thought.

But, he reminded himself, times like these, he wasn’t always as clear-headed as he was normally. It was entirely possible that, beginning to feel detached and off-kilter, he’d read too much into it. It wouldn’t do to build things up too much.

But it wouldn’t be sensible to dismiss the thought out of hand. When he was himself again – well. Then he’d revisit that thought.

They’d stayed up late talking – or rather, Pete had talked, and Patrick had listened, amused and interested, the perfect audience. It was so easy, when it was just the two of them; none of the worries of being in a crowd when he felt like this, unable to tell whether he was going too far and would pay for it later. It almost didn’t matter, Pete thought, as he let himself drift off, that Patrick didn’t love him. If Patrick would just remain his friend, that would be enough – more than enough. But his own words to Greta came back to him: he wanted someone who was his, in the way that Bill and Gabe just clearly belonged to each other, someone he could build a life with, not someone whose life intersected with his.

More than that, he wanted Patrick to be that someone. He wanted that like he couldn’t ever remember wanting anything.

And perhaps it was that manic, out-of-control, ill-judged feeling talking, but for once he let himself indulge the hope that, if he tried, if he made sure to be everything Patrick needed, he might be allowed to have it.


	3. Chapter 3

**

The next morning, despite the late night he and Pete had had, Patrick was down early. He wasn’t really expecting to see Pete at breakfast – Pete had drunk more at dinner than he usually did, and Patrick knew it – so he had some vague plans to go out onto the terrace with the book he’d been trying to read for the last few days, just until Pete was up and they could plan their day. He’d resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn’t have a chance to read while Pete was around. For some reason, Pete wasn’t content to let the evenings pass in companionable silence the way he had been in London, and while Patrick enjoyed talking late into the night, particularly with Pete, he missed being able to lose himself in a good book.

He poured himself a cup of tea, offered the ever-present footmen an absent smile of thanks, and wandered out, tea and book in hand. But he’d no sooner settled himself comfortably on the stone bench than someone cleared their throat right by him.

He jerked a little and sent scalding tea into the saucer and over his hand. As he bit back an instinctive curse, the mysterious someone tutted.

Patrick carefully put the tea down, and looked up to find Mrs Errol above him. For a long moment, their eyes met in silence. Then she bobbed a perfunctory curtsey.

“His lordship’s compliments, sir,” she said mechanically, “but you’re to amuse yourself today. He’s unwell.”

Patrick instantly forgot his scalded hand and sodden cuff. “Oh, no,” he said, standing. “Is it – is it the same complaint he had in London?”

Mrs Errol eyed him dubiously, though her expression softened just a little out of its cool, hard lines. “Now, that I can’t answer, sir,” she said, after a long pause. “But he’s suffered from this since he was a child. _Not_ that I hold with indulging children in fits and starts of any kind, but anyone with the eyes God gave them could see he was a high-strung boy.”

Patrick didn’t understand much of her little speech, and chose not to pry. Pete would tell him in his own good time, if he wanted him to know. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked, already expecting to be turned down. If Greta hadn’t wanted his help, Patrick’s old nurse definitely wouldn’t.

As expected, she shook her head. “No, thank you, sir,” she said calmly. “He’ll do well enough. When he feels up to it, you might go and see him, if you’d like. Read to him, or – or something like that.”

“Of course. And – if anything changes, anything at all, would you tell me please? As soon as possible. I would like to know. And if he should begin to – to worry himself about me, please tell him that I’m perfectly happy.”

“Worry himself, sir?” Mrs Errol said blankly.

Patrick couldn’t meet her eyes. “I know that sick people – when the illness makes them, well, not… not quite right, they. Well. They can be terribly tenacious about an idea. If Pete should- if he should worry about me, being on my own in the house. I just – I’m sure you know better than me how to deal with him,” and he didn’t understand the way her mouth pursed, but he forged on regardless, “but reassure him. Please.”

She paused, then curtseyed again. “I see,” she said, and Patrick rather thought she was seeing more than he meant her too. “Of course sir. I won’t be every minute, of course, so if you should want me…”

“Yes, thank you,” he nodded, his mind already elsewhere. He barely even noticed her going.

It was just his luck – and just Pete’s too, for that matter – that with his paralysing fear of sickrooms, he should go and fall in love with someone with a recurring illness. Tea and book long-forgotten, he brooded over it, worrying about Pete and fretting himself uselessly, until the heat drove him back indoors. He wandered the halls, nominally exploring, but hardly even paying attention to where he was going. He opened door after door without actually seeing the rooms behind them, until he found himself at the door to the East Wing.

He turned away from it resolutely – no point stirring up memories of a few days ago, after all – and went upstairs. He almost wanted to check on Pete, but the thought of drawn curtains and heavy, humid air kept him from even trying. Instead, he turned left at the top of the stairs, towards the guest wing, and turned into the first room he came to.

It was a pleasant room, longer than it was wide and flooded with clean early-morning light. A harp stood in one corner, the strings loosened for storage – Patrick thought of Megan, and sighed a little. A handsome piano stood a little way from a set of chairs, grouped around the fireplace, and there were three or four music stands over in one corner. It was a charming, pleasant room, decorated with taste and style, for comfort more than show. Patrick smiled to himself, imagining a young Pete at that piano, refusing to practise properly.

Carefully, he backed out the door and pulled it shut behind him. He wouldn’t go back until he could go back with Pete.

**

Pete had woken to find that his worst fears of the night before had come true – today wasn’t worth getting up for. Unfortunately, his assigned valet took one look at him and sent for Mrs Errol – the last person he wanted to see on days like these. Much though he loved her, her world didn’t admit of melancholia. Someone who complained of low mood or lack of interest was either skiving or sickening for something.

After she’d spent a good half hour trying to chivvy him out of bed, he snapped.

“My God, I’m not in your nursery anymore!” he shouted. “Leave me be, for Heaven’s sake! If you really want to be useful, go and tell Mr Stump that I’m unwell and won’t be joining him today.”

She cast him a look of naked hurt as she swept out, and he huddled under the covers, feeling worse than ever.

Of course, this was even worse than it would have been in London. London had Greta.

He sat up, staring sightlessly ahead. He’d opened his bed-hangings and shut them at least three times the night before, unable to get comfortable, and they were open now, so he could see the sunshine pouring into the room, but it felt distant – like all its warmth and brightness was happening to someone else, somewhere else.

On an abstract level, he knew that wasn’t true – he was sweating through his nightshirt and the room was very hot. But getting up to open the windows meant _getting up_ , and that was completely beyond him. Nor could he call a servant, because then he’d have to deal with a servant, one who didn’t know about these days, or worse, one who did. Today was just going to be awful. Worse than normal, in fact – if he felt anything at all, it was fear. He was terrified of facing one of these episodes by himself. In India, he’d had Brendon; in London he had Greta. Here at Highleyton, he was alone, and he was _at Highleyton_ \- it couldn’t be worse.

Well – it could. Patrick could find out. Pete was still adamant that Patrick could never find out, not for a long time, at any rate. Not until they were back on track, and Patrick wouldn’t freak out and leave because Pete was mad, or a monster.

In the meantime, Pete would just have to be brave, somehow. The problem was that it was so much harder to be brave by himself.

Pete pulled the sheets in tighter around himself, and went to sleep, more out of a desire not to be doing anything than out of a need for sleep.

**

When he woke, the light was fading, and he had the groggy, sick feeling of over-sleeping overlaying the numbness that characterised days like these. Someone had put a tray of food by the bed; the sandwiches had gone slightly stale, but that didn’t matter, Pete wasn’t really hungry anyway. Eating was just another thing he had to do, he knew that academically, but hunger wasn’t something he felt during his episodes. Still, it was comforting that someone remembered how he liked things done.

Then again, he supposed that he was the Marquis now, and not just The Heir. It was much harder to put him away and forget about him now. And his father wasn’t outside the door thundering at him about how he should behave, half-pleading, half-furious. 

He swung his legs out of bed, and sat there for a moment before deciding it was too difficult and climbing back in. The room was sticky with heat, his sheets unpleasantly damp, but Pete just rolled over and went back to sleep.

**

This, Patrick decided, was far worse than it had been in London. Pete had been in his room for the last couple of days, and no one would tell Patrick _anything_. Joe wasn’t there to try and ferret out information, and even Mrs Errol was being very tight-lipped about the whole thing, despite her promise to keep Patrick informed. Either it was true that nothing had changed, or something terrible was happening upstairs. They’d said Pete was ill again, and though Patrick had no idea what was wrong with him, if Pete had had it for years, it was probably getting worse.

He was sat alone in the morning room, picking half-heartedly at his breakfast. No matter how he tried to forget it, his mind kept straying back to the room upstairs where Pete was sick. Maybe dying. No, he told himself firmly. Not dying. Not everyone who was sick died. And going by the reassuringly blasé reactions of the staff, this was a regular-enough occurrence - this was just a childhood illness. It had to be. Besides, Pete was far too stubborn to die. The thought made Patrick smile and he stood up, pushing his chair back.

"You haven't eaten much, Mr. Stump," said a voice from behind him and he jumped, stifling a yelp.

Mrs. Waybridge, the housekeeper, who ruled below stairs with an iron fist, raised her eyebrows at him. "I'm sorry if I startled you," she said calmly, blatantly not sorry at all. "We can get you something else to eat, if it's not to your taste."

"No, no," Patrick said hurriedly. "It's all lovely, thank you! I just - I suppose I'm not hungry this morning."

Mrs. Waybridge frowned, her eyes falling on his empty teacup. "Would you like some more tea?"

"Yes?" Patrick said helplessly, feeling it was best to accept.

"I'll call for another pot," she beckoned imperiously to a maid, who nodded and left the room, presumably in search of tea.

"Not at all," Patrick sank back into his seat, feeling a little awkward. The maid came and went again, leaving a full pot of tea and clean cups. Mrs Waybridge leisurely poured out the tea and presented him with a cup. Patrick fought the urge to fidget. 

"Lord Highleyton speaks very highly of you," she said abruptly, just as Patrick took a mouthful of tea. To his own embarrassment, he choked and spent a couple of minutes coughing up scalding tea from his lungs. Mrs Waybridge watched him impassively.

"That's - that's very kind of him," Patrick managed when he stopped wheezing. "I think highly of him as well." That sounded lame even to his own ears, so he added, "He's a good man."

"Hmm," Mrs. Waybridge was still watching him as though she was looking for something. "Good, yes. But always lacking in sense, even when he was a boy."

Patrick wasn’t sure whether that was a comment on Pete’s knack for making inferior friends: friends like Patrick. He decided not to ask.

"Pete's not stupid," he protested instead. "He's one of the cleverest people I've ever met!"

"He's clever enough," agreed Mrs Waybridge. "But he has very little common sense. And he trusts people far too much. One day there's going to be someone who takes advantage."

She gave him a long, searching look and Patrick had the distinct impression his motives were being called into question. It was strangely comforting to think that Pete had someone here who looked out for him. Perhaps it was that thought that had him blurting out, without thinking, "Will he be alright?"

Mrs Waybridge raised her eyebrows. "His lordship? I should think so." There was a slight coolness in her voice.

“Because he was ill in London and I'd hate to think he'd got worse," Patrick continued, flushing when Mrs Waybridge looked surprised. “I mean, I got the impression that it's an illness he's had before."

"It's a problem we're familiar with," she conceded, with that same reserve. “It’s one he's unlikely to die from."

"Good. That's good," Patrick said feebly, still feeling under scrutiny. "If- if there's anything I can do to help - not that I'm not sure you're doing everything you need to, of course - but I'd like to help."

"There's no need, Mr Stump-"

"I don't want to get underfoot," he said quickly. "I just - I feel useless, doing nothing when I could be helping. Even if it's something small. He - Pete said he didn't want to see me, but - I don't know, I could read to him? My mother used to read to me when I was ill, and it always made me feel better."

Mrs Waybridge paused and then nodded. "It's a good idea. But he’s finicky when he’s like this - he may not see you.”

"I'll go up soon and see," Patrick said, unexpectedly relieved. "I’m sure I can find something he’d like to listen to.”

“He shouldn’t be up there when he’s got a guest in the house,” Mrs Waybridge said firmly, then back-tracked when Patrick looked at her, eyebrow raised. “But I suppose when you’re ill, one doesn’t want company.”

“Indeed not,” Patrick said, sounding a little cool himself. After Kevin, he had very little sympathy with the view that people could simply think themselves better. “Well, thank you, Mrs Waybridge. It was kind of you to tell me how his lordship is doing.” It was as clear a dismissal as he could manage, and Mrs Waybridge drew herself up a little, then nodded.

"Of course, sir - I’ll leave you to your tea. Please do just call if you need anything."

She left, and Patrick stared at the tea in the bottom of his cup until it went cold.

**

He had no idea what Mrs Waybridge had been talking about, but when he thought back over the last couple of days, he couldn’t remember the bustle around Pete’s sickroom that had happened around Kevin’s – or indeed, around any normal sickroom. He wanted to see for himself that Pete was alright – but the only thing that actually got him down the corridor towards Pete’s room was the thought of Pete in that room, sick and alone.

All the same, for all his resolve and worry, his hand wasn’t quite steady when he raised it to knock on the door.

“Come in,” Pete’s voice called, a little hoarse, and Patrick steeled himself and opened the door.

Pete was sat on his bed, knees to his chest, half dressed in old breeches, and staring out the window opposite his bed. He didn’t look sick – he wasn’t pale or sweating, and there was none of the lacunae of illness Patrick had come to expect; no bleeding bowls, no laudanum, no strange pills or potions. Pete just looked – blank.

Absurdly, Patrick held out the book he’d brought with him.

“I thought you might like to listen to something,” he said weakly, and Pete just stared at him. “Are – are you alright?”

For a moment, Pete was silent, and then he laughed, a horrible humourless laugh that Patrick almost flinched back from. “No, Mr Stump, I am not alright. What can I do for you today?”

“Um?” Patrick said, completely wrong-footed. “I didn’t-”

“Come for a look at the monster?” Pete demanded, almost savagely.

“No?” Patrick said, half-hurt, half-angry.

Pete stared at him for a little longer, then he shut his eyes, sagging back against the headboard. “I’m sorry,” he said, eyes still shut. “I thought you knew. I- I hoped you didn’t, but I assumed you did.”

“Why?” Patrick asked, finally letting his hand, and the book, fall back to his side. “What’s there to know? And why would I know it?”

“Because everyone knows,” Pete told him. “So, congratulations – you’ve discovered my family’s worst-kept secret.”

“Your illness?” Patrick said uncertainly.

Pete nodded. “Sometimes my brain decides to turn against me. Everything goes grey and flat and lifeless and, as you can see, just getting out of bed is too much,” he smiled without humour. “So I stay in here and I get so tangled up in my own head that it’s probably for the best that I can’t get out of bed because I would be hell to live with.”

Patrick didn’t even try to think of something to say.

“My doctor calls it ‘acute melancholia’,” Pete grimaced, his voice still emotionless; it was unnerving, for a man as open and demonstrative as Pete usually was. “My father called it ‘acute malingering’. His idea of support was to tell me to pull myself together, which of course, worked wonderfully. There was a lot of screaming. Eventually, I decided that shutting myself up in here until it finished was the most peaceable way around things and he mostly let me.”

“Does it… last long?”

Pete shrugged. “A day, a week, a month? It varies.” He looked at Patrick, a flicker of something almost like regret playing over his face. “I’m sorry – I didn’t want you to know. I’ll understand if you want to leave.”

Patrick paused for a long moment. “Are you asking me to leave?”

“I’m saying I won’t be – I don’t know. Hurt? Surprised? If you want to leave.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

“Then stay.” It was the first outright command Pete had ever given him, and Patrick didn’t think he was capable of disobeying it, even if he’d wanted to. After all, loving someone didn’t mean loving only the palatable parts of them – everyone had something dark to their personality. If Pete’s was that he sometimes found life a little too much and had to retreat inside his head, well. It was probably better than Patrick’s worst parts, whatever they might be.

So instead of leaving, he hovered for a moment at the edge of the bed, then went to grab the chair from the small desk, pulling it up next to the bed and sitting down. “The only way I’d leave if is you told me to go,” he said, possibly a little too sincere, and Pete stared at him for a long moment before nodding.

“I believe you,” he said dully. “So please. Stay.”

“I will,” Patrick promised. “How can I help? I’ll do whatever you need.”

“Just – silence,” Pete said, sounding small and defeated. “Or – or you could talk to me.”

“What about?”

“Please don’t ask me to make decisions,” Pete said wretchedly. “Anything. Tell me the rules of Commerce if you want, but just – talk. I’d like to hear a _voice_.”

“Um – alright?” So Patrick paused and thought for a second. For the first time in weeks, he found himself with nothing to say to Pete; but he was determined to help in any way he could, so he cleared his throat and started to talk.

He didn’t really know what he was talking about – he had a feeling it was mostly nonsense. He chatted mindlessly about his time at school, concerts he’d particularly enjoyed, embarrassing stories about growing up – embarrassing stories about _Bill_ growing up, their first outing to the local Assembly Rooms, wet, dismal holidays with his great-aunt in Wales in a rectory that leaked – anything that he thought might raise a smile or interest Pete. For a full hour, he talked about his thoughts on music theory.

He lost track of time, and when a servant came to announce lunch, he was surprised to find his throat hurt. He hesitated, looking at the motionless figure on the bed.

“You should go,” Pete said listlessly, the first thing he’d said since Patrick had started to talk.

“Do you – want me to go?”

“We’re not back to this, are we?”

Patrick sighed and turned to the servant. “Could I have something up here?”

If the servant thought there was anything odd about the request, he didn’t show it. Nor did he seem surprised to find their guest in Lord Highleyton’s room, Highleyton himself half-dressed on the bed. Patrick would worry how it looked later. In the meantime, he cleared his throat and started to talk again.

By late afternoon, his voice had gone completely and he could only talk in a croak. Finally, after he cleared his throat painfully for the fifth time in as many minutes, Pete sat up. “Stop,” he said, but his eyes were warm. “Go outside. Remind yourself that the world still exists.”

Patrick nodded and stood up, wincing as his knees cracked. “Won’t you come too?” he rasped.

Pete shook his head, retreating backwards against the hangings. “No. Thank you. Besides,” he smiled, just a little. “I’m hardly dressed for it.”

“Was that a joke?”

The smile held. “Maybe. I’ve been known to make jokes occasionally. Not _good_ ones, admittedly.”

Patrick shrugged. “I don’t know. You make me laugh.”

“It’s not my jokes you’re laughing at, Stump.” Patrick would have worried, but the words had no sting.

“Oh, sometimes it’s your jokes,” Patrick said lightly and Pete’s smile widened fractionally.

He waved Patrick off with a languid hand. “Go on. Off with you.”

“I’ll be back,” Patrick told him. For a moment, he desperately wanted to kiss Pete and hated that he couldn’t, and hated himself for wanting to kiss Pete when Pete felt so dreadful.

It was all very confusing and the best thing Patrick could do was beat a hasty retreat with a promise to return.

**

Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed three in the morning and Pete stared at the guttering candle until his eyes ached. The nights were the worst. 

“Night’s candles are burnt out,” he mumbled to himself, and turned his face into the pillow. God, he wanted to go home. Or to go to sleep. Or to be out of his own head, for just a little while. 

At least Patrick was just down the corridor – that was far more comforting than it should have been. Patrick, who finally knew what Pete was really like, and for whatever reason hadn’t run screaming. Had stayed with him all day, and talked himself hoarse to make Pete feel better. For all Pete’s fears that Patrick would find out and despise him, or pity him, or _leave_ him, it was the most amazing relief that Patrick actually knew. Pete still felt blank and detached, but the idea of a Patrick who knew and didn’t seem to mind was a warm thought he could hug to himself when he felt particularly bad. Most of his friends didn’t know – just Gabe, Brendon, Greta, Mikey. But somehow, Patrick knowing meant more.

Pete didn’t want to examine that too closely. Bad enough that he was in love with Patrick, without ending up completely dependent on him. Patrick would marry someone else and break Pete’s heart and that was that. That was how romance worked for Pete.

**

It took two mugs of hot water, honey and lemon to get his voice working again, but Patrick was back at Pete’s door the next morning, book still in hand. He barely waited for Pete to call him in before he was opening the door.

“Are you up to company?” he asked, and Pete nodded, staring at him like he’d never seen him before.

“You’re back,” he said slowly. “I didn’t really think you’d come back.”

“I’m persistent,” Patrick said unapologetically. “I thought you might like to hear some of _The Monk_ today – I brought it along specially.”

Pete blinked then shook his head, and Patrick tried not to feel hurt. “You sound dreadful,” he said crossly. “Give it here. I’ll read to you.” Patrick dithered, and Pete glanced up at him. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded, clearly tetchy. “Sit down. Where have you got to?”

**

Pete read until lunch, when Patrick bullied him through a bowl of soup and half a sandwich. Then, exhausted, Pete slept while Patrick read in the chair next to the bed, a calm, steady presence that reassured him more than he could say. 

When he woke up, it was five o’clock and Patrick was still there. For a few seconds, Pete lay there without moving, just watching Patrick – the evening light catching the gold in his hair, the way his shadow fell over the book, making him squint a little to read. Then, feeling uncomfortably voyeuristic, he sat up. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” Patrick said, his voice warm. “I was beginning to think you’d sleep the night through.”

“No such luck,” Pete grumbled. “Aren’t you dressing for dinner?”

“I thought I might have it up here, if you don’t mind,” Patrick said casually. “When I’m by myself, even the morning room feels a bit too big.”

Pete nodded – he knew the feeling. “If you like,” he said ungraciously. “So. Has _The Monk_ been entertaining you properly in my absence?”

Patrick shrugged. “D’you know, I don’t think I’ll ever really _like_ gothic fiction. It is compelling, though.”

Pete looked away. “It was worth a try,” he said listlessly. “Some people love it, you know.”

“And I can see why,” Patrick said steadily. “But it’s not for me. All those girls in nightdresses – all I can think is how _cold_ they must be, in those big drafty castles.”

Pete smiled, surprising himself. “If you apply logic to literature, you’ll put all the authors out of business, Mr Stump.”

“I wouldn’t want that,” Patrick said, smiling. “I’ll call for supper up here. Supper for two,” he added firmly, with a sharp look at Pete. Pete was at least wise enough to know when he was beaten.

**

Supper was a little awkward to start with. Pete wasn’t hungry, and picked at his food, while Patrick kept shooting him worried glances, the kind that had always rubbed Pete up the wrong way.

Finally, he shoved his tray away and glared at him.

“Enough,” he said crossly. “I’m not an animal in the zoo, you can stop staring at me.”

Patrick flushed. “Sorry,” he said, shrugging. “I guess – I thought you were ill.”

“I _am_ ill,” Pete said, half-dismal, half-irritated. “D’you think I would _pretend_ this? I would be overjoyed if it never happened again. I- I don’t know what it is, exactly, but it’s definitely an illness of some sort. It has to be.” He eyed Patrick, who looked oddly torn. “What we call illness is what happens when the body stops working properly, isn’t it? Well. My mind isn’t working properly. So. Illness.”

Patrick shut his eyes for a second, and Pete honestly couldn’t read his expression, which made him nervous, and cross about being nervous. “I’m sorry,” Patrick said again, and Pete braced himself for whatever was coming next. “I don’t mean to be unkind or stupid about this, it’s just, I. Well, I suppose I’m rather frightened of illness.”

“Of this illness, you mean,” Pete snapped. He’d barely touched his food, but he was already regretting what he had eaten – he was regretting being half-dressed and on his bed. He wanted to be fully-clothed and armoured for a conversation like this.

“No!” Patrick snapped back, frustrated. “Of _illness_ , in general! I hate sickrooms, and I hate illness and injuries and – everything to do with being ill! It terrifies me, alright? Worse than horses, worse than – worse than _anything_.”

Pete frowned, taking a step back from his instinctive defensiveness. He knew he could be self-absorbed at times, but during days like these he wavered between being morbidly aware of those around him to being so walled in his own head he could barely tell if people were in the room with him. Instead of biting back a retort, he took a few minutes to examine Patrick – the clench of his hand on his knife, his pallor, the tension in the set of his shoulders. “Why?” he said finally, as gently as he could manage.

Patrick flushed awkwardly, looking down. “You don’t want to hear about that now,” he mumbled. “Another time, maybe.”

It took an effort of will not to simply demand to be told, but Pete was ill, not completely insensitive. Anyway, he could probably guess. “Is it something to do with your brother?” he asked quietly.

Patrick glanced up at him, surprised; his hold on his knife loosened a little. “How do you know?”

“I don’t,” Pete admitted. “But I know he – died. It was either him or your parents.”

“All three, actually,” Patrick said, with a humourless laugh. “Kevin’s was the worst, though.” He put his knife down and made an impatient little gesture. “It’s not – we should talk about something else. This isn’t a good topic for someone who’s not feeling right.”

Doggedly interested though Pete was, he could be sensitive. “You don’t have to tell me anything,” he shrugged. “But it won’t make me feel worse if you _do_ want to tell me.”

Patrick shot him a curious glance under his lashes. “Would it make you feel any better?” he asked diffidently, and Pete fought a brief but vicious battle between honesty and curiosity. Honesty won, but only by a hair’s-breadth.

“No,” he said simply. “It doesn’t seem to work like that. But I _am_ interested, and that’s rare enough when I’m – like this.”

“Alright,” Patrick nodded slowly, and took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair and shutting his eyes. “I was sixteen – Kevin was twenty one, he’d been in the Guards for three years.”

“I knew he was a soldier,” Pete said quietly, when the pause went on for just a shade too long. “You mentioned that.”

“Yes. Well, there was a war on. I was too young to sign up, you see, or maybe I would’ve done – though I doubt I’d have been much good, what with how I am with horses. And I don’t think my parents would have let me. They didn’t like Kevin joining up, but both their sons? They loved us, but there were practicalities to consider.” Patrick took a deep breath. “Kevin was good at it, though. He was – they told us he was very good with the men under his command. And he made a lot of friends in his platoon. But he was wounded, in Spain. They shipped him back eventually, of course, when it became obvious that he wasn’t going to recover quickly.” He shut his eyes for a long moment, and his mouth tightened. “When he got home, he was very ill indeed,” he said, his voice tightly controlled. “I only caught glimpses of him – for the most part, Megan and I were kept out of the sickroom. Well, you can understand; Megan was only eight, and teenage boys aren’t usually very good with sick people. But his leg-” he broke off, and Pete noticed that Patrick’s hands were clenched into fists.

Abruptly he felt terrible. “You don’t have to tell me anything,” he said quickly, the words almost tumbling over themselves. “You – it’s upsetting you.”

The smile Patrick offered him was tiny. “I’ve only told Bill and Gabe about this,” he said apologetically. “But if it’s not upsetting you – I’ve been bottling this up for so long.”

Pete kept his silence for a few seconds, then shifted nearer. “I’ll listen to whatever you want to tell me,” he promised. “Anything.”

Patrick smiled, but his expression was more distant than anything else. “I don’t know why they didn’t amputate the leg,” he said finally. “By the time he got back to England, it was already too late, but we didn’t know that. It – the wound, something had gone wrong with it. I only saw it once, but God, I’ll never forget it. It was _green_ , hideous, and Kevin was so pale.” He shuddered a little. “And we must have had six or seven doctors out to see him,” he went on, his voice becoming a little thick. “But they just bled him and bled him and I don’t know how he had any blood left in the end. In the end, there was only one my parents trusted.” He offered Pete the saddest smile Pete had ever seen. “And they only trusted him because he told them outright that Kevin was going to die. My – my father warned me what was coming. Mama shut herself away; I had to tell Megan. We were allowed into see Kevin once before – before. He looked like he was already dead, and the room was _so hot_ , and it smelt dreadful; like decay. Kevin wasn’t even really there anymore. He smiled at us, and pulled Megan’s hair like he used to, but he barely knew us, I think. The last thing he said to me was about his horse, for God’s sake.”

“Patrick,” Pete said helplessly, “I’m so sorry.”

Patrick shrugged and looked down at his plate, blatantly avoiding Pete’s eyes. When he spoke again, he sounded choked. “After that – well. My mother never recovered. I still don’t really know what she died of; she just went into her room, and I don’t remember her coming out again. And when she died… my father could probably have dealt with losing one member of his family, but he couldn’t handle losing both of them. I’d only just left school when he caught a fever, and died. For the last few days of his life, he just kept telling me he was sorry.” He shook his head to clear it. “I’m sorry, you didn’t want to hear this.”

Pete made an abortive gesture to take Patrick’s hand, then drew back. He wasn’t sure that Patrick would welcome it; he wasn’t sure whether he even wanted to touch someone else. He felt as though he might shatter if he got too near to anyone, even when that someone was Patrick. Luckily Patrick hadn’t noticed. He was staring into the middle distance, but he pulled himself back to the present when Pete said, “I don’t want you to be upset. But I’ll listen to anything you want to tell me.”

He knew it was a poor effort, but Patrick just nodded. “Thank you,” he said dully. “I didn’t mean to make this evening a self-pity-party. It’s just that that’s why I’m- I’m frightened of illness. When they said you were ill, in London… I do _know_ that not everyone dies whenever they get sick. I do. But Greta seemed so worried and I thought you might die.” He met Pete’s eyes almost unwillingly. “And things were so – fragile between us, and I wanted to make it right, and I thought you might die, and I was terrified.” His smile was very faint. “I don’t have many friends, and I didn’t want to lose another.”

Pete did reach out this time, touching Patrick’s hand very gently. The contact was almost a shock, and Patrick imperceptibly flinched. But he turned his hand over and clasped Pete’s for one brief second before drawing back. “I’m not going anywhere,” Pete told him. “I just get lost inside my head.”

Patrick nodded and his smile seemed a little stronger. “Well, as long as you come back,” he said, and the pause dragged on far too long. Pete couldn’t think of anything to say, even though he desperately wanted to, to keep the conversation going and keep Patrick in his room. Eventually, though, Patrick stood up, faintly red, and offered him an awkward smile. “I should let you sleep,” he said, edging towards the door.

“You will come back though, won’t you?” Pete said, as Patrick stood on the threshold. He hadn’t even meant to say it, but the worry that Patrick just wouldn’t come back overwhelmed him at the last minute.

Patrick looked back, his eyes serious and his gaze steady. “Of course,” he said. “If you want?”

Pete looked back just as steadily. “I want.”

As the door closed, Pete just caught a glimpse of the first real smile Patrick had given him all evening.

**

Patrick paused in the corridor and stood there, breathing deeply for a couple of seconds. Raking up his own demons, combined with Pete’s melancholy, and the heat of the room… he felt as though he hadn’t caught a breath in hours. Getting back to his own room and getting a little space felt like a reprieve, even as being alone started to feel a little like loneliness. He hadn’t been really alone, properly alone, since he moved in with Pete, and he already knew that he didn’t want to be again.

Still, it felt oddly refreshing to sink into his own cool bed, and he nodded off within moments.

He woke a few hours later, unsure how much time had passed, his sheets plastered to him by a cold sweat. He hadn’t drawn his curtains before he fell asleep, and the moon was high, casting weird shadows over the room. The dream had been a familiar one – it was an illusion, but he almost felt as though the smell of laudanum and decay was still filling his mouth and nose, as though he could feel the terrible heat of the fire. He hadn’t seen Kevin after he died, but in the dream, Kevin’s sightless eyes stared up at him.

Except it hadn’t been Kevin. In his dream Pete had been in the bed, face gaunt, fever-ravaged, and dead. It wasn’t new – he’d had dreams like this a hundred times, often with a different person; his parents, Megan, Joe. But the revulsion, the fear and sadness, they were always the same. 

He sat up and poured himself some water from the pitcher by his bed, his hands shaking a little, drinking to clear his head and get the taste out of his mouth. He calmed as the room settled a little, and the horror of the dream faded somewhat. Still, he knew from experience that sleep would evade him for a few hours at least, and there was always the niggling fear that something had gone wrong while he slept. So instead of trying to get back to sleep, he swung his legs out of the bed, lit a candle and crept out of his room, intending to head down to the library or just wander the house until he felt tired again.

Except as he passed Pete’s room, he hesitated and blew out the candle. Yes – there was light spilling out under the door. Either Pete had fallen asleep with a candle lit, or he was still awake. Patrick dithered for a moment over the propriety of knocking on people’s doors in the middle of the night, then decided that he and Pete had gone way past normal propriety; before he could second-guess himself into a frenzy, he knocked on the door.

There was a second’s worth of puzzled silence, and then the door opened. Pete was still in the same shirt and breeches he’d been in when Patrick had left, but he looked worried. 

“Patrick? Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

Patrick opened his mouth then shut it again. Saying ‘I came to make sure you weren’t dead’ sounded so stupid. “I was – I was passing, and I saw a light. I thought you might have fallen asleep with a candle lit?”

“Passing. I see,” Pete said, but it didn’t sound judgemental. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled the door wide. “Do you want to come in?”

All of Patrick’s hard-taught notions of decorum screeched at him for a moment – in the bedroom of an unmarried man?! In the middle of the night!? – and he silenced them ruthlessly. “Please,” he said, and followed Pete back into the room, shutting the door a little awkwardly behind him.

Pete sat himself at the writing desk again, and waved a negligent hand. “Make yourself at home. I’m not good company tonight, but there are books over there if you want to read, and there’s a couple of newspapers somewhere, I think.”

“Thanks.” Patrick picked up a book from the stack by the bed, and curled up in his usual chair. He heard the soft noises of Pete trimming his pen, and twisted round when he couldn’t hear him writing. Pete was sat at the desk, inked quill in hand, staring down at the – Patrick could just see – blank sheet of paper. He wanted to ask what Pete was doing, but he got the feeling it wouldn’t be welcome. So he turned back to his book. But the relief at finding Pete was alright had drained the fear and nerves from him, and the words were beginning to swim in front of his eyes.

**

Patrick could only have been in the room about twenty minutes or so when Pete heard the book thud to the floor. He actually smiled a little to himself – falling in asleep in chairs was getting to be a habit of Patrick’s. When he glanced back, Patrick’s head was lolling at an uncomfortable angle; he sighed, his smile wavering then holding, and turned back to the desk.

Ten minutes later, though, he couldn’t concentrate properly. He pushed himself to his feet and went over to the chair.

“For God’s sake,” he muttered to himself, putting one hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Patrick? Trick? Come on, wake up. You’re going to be so uncomfortable in the morning.” Patrick murmured to himself and opened his eyes, more asleep than awake. “Come on,” Pete said again, all-but dragging Patrick upright. For a second, Pete debated sending Patrick back to his room, then decided against it – that sounded like effort. Instead, he waved a hand at his own bed. “You can take the bed,” he said easily. “I don’t think I’m going to get much sleep tonight.” A little shove was all it took; Patrick went face-first into the bed.

Pete smiled to himself as Patrick, apparently instinctively, curled himself up in the covers and went back to sleep. Pete went back to the desk to stare down at the blank sheet of paper until morning. But for some reason, having Patrick there – the steady, quiet rhythm of his breathing, the sense of companionship – made things easier. He re-inked his quill, and began to write.

**

Pete called for breakfast as sunlight started filtering through the curtains. When the servant came, his expression didn’t change, but his eyes flickered to Patrick in the bed; Pete heaved a silent sigh. He hated having to do damage control.

“Mr Stump was taken ill in the night,” he said. “If you could see some hot water brought up to his room, I’d be grateful.” He met the servant’s eyes without flinching. “This is for your trouble.” He handed over a couple of coins, and the man bowed his way out.

Pete dithered for a moment by the breakfast tray, before pouring a cup of tea and setting it down on the bedside table, reaching to shake Patrick gently. “Patrick?” He shook a little harder when Patrick frowned, mumbled something and showed no signs of doing anything further. “Patrick, breakfast’s here.”

Patrick opened his eyes, still clearly half-asleep. “Wha’?”

“Breakfast,” Pete said clearly.

Patrick hefted himself up onto his elbows. Pete could see the moment his brain kicked into gear – Pete’s room, Pete’s bed, Pete himself, and probably his own state of dishabille. He went scarlet, and dragged his hand over his eyes. He opened his mouth, clearly about to say something, and Pete cut across him.

“I haven’t ravished you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he told him bluntly. “For one thing, it’s too hot.”

“I wasn’t worried about that,” Patrick retorted. “I was going to apologise for stealing your bed.”

Pete shrugged, already turning back to the breakfast tray. “I wasn’t using it,” he said easily. “There’s tea on the bedside table, if you want it.”

“I should probably go back to my room,” Patrick said awkwardly. “And, you know. Dress. If I’m not back when Parsifleur arrives, he’ll probably raise an alarm.”

“Of course,” Pete nodded, a little awkward himself. He didn’t quite know how to ask Patrick to come back.

Apparently reading his mind, Patrick clambered out of bed, then hovered by the door, nervous tension in every aborted half-movement. “I – I’ll come back?” he said diffidently. “If you want me to?”

“Please,” Pete said, just a shade too quickly. For a moment, he looked at Patrick in silence, then, suddenly, he smiled. “I get lost in my head, and – well. Sometimes I need someone to provide the breadcrumbs,” he said lightly, and for a second, Patrick frowned, unable to place the reference.

“So long as I’m not the witch,” he said finally, and Pete’s smile wavered, then held.

“If we burn, we burn together,” he said firmly. “Now get out. Go and change into something reputable, or we’ll never get the staff to stop talking.”

**

The rest of the day passed without incident, though Pete was irritable and indifferent by turns, and he was often difficult to draw out. He spent a lot of his time at the desk, writing and irritably scribbling out what he’d written, and Patrick weathered it, choosing to ignore the mood swings and the dangerous expression Pete wore when he was at his most bad-tempered. He learnt, over the course of the day, that in those moods the thing Pete most wanted to do was pick a fight, and he would, if Patrick let him. The only difference between the times when Patrick went along with it, and the times when he didn’t, was how fast the guilt set in afterwards, and how long Pete would stay sunk in a mire of self-reproaches that Patrick apparently couldn’t help him out of.

Eventually, they got to the crux of it all, the reason behind Pete’s odd, temperamental behaviour and his sudden emotional about-turns.

“I just don’t understand,” Pete told him bitterly, at the end of a one-sided and unpleasant ten-minute spat, “why you’d stay.”

“You don’t understand why I’d stay,” Patrick repeated rather tightly. He desperately wanted to snap back that, at that moment, he didn’t know why either, but he reminded himself that Pete wasn’t well, and it wasn’t fair to have a really good fight with him right now, much though Patrick might like to. 

Pete sat down heavily on the bed, all the fight disappearing abruptly – even more abruptly than usual. “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t understand.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Patrick said firmly. “I wouldn’t leave you alone if you had flu, I don’t see how this is any different.”

“Oh, it’s not just this,” Pete said, waving a hand at the room around them. Patrick waited but Pete didn’t seem as though he was going to continue. Eventually, he pushed a little.

“Oh?” he said carefully. “What else is it, then?”

Pete wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Well,” he muttered, picking at a spot on the bed sheets, “our whole – the way we met-”

Ice water slipped down Patrick’s spine. “I thought we were past that,” he said, and perhaps his voice was a little chilly.

“I can’t forget,” Pete said miserably, and Patrick almost flinched back from him.

“Then why am I even here?” he demanded, before remembering Pete wasn’t well when his friend actually did flinch away. “If you can’t forget what an idiot I was,” he began more gently, but Pete looked up, eyes wide.

“What? No! No, that’s not what I meant at all!”

Patrick took a deep, steadying breath. “Then what _do_ you mean?” he asked, with what he felt was admirable calm.

Pete looked wretched. “I don’t know how you can forgive me,” he mumbled. “I – we both know now that it was just a stupid misunderstanding, but it didn’t start out that way, and for _weeks_ I made you feel like a whore. How do you even begin to forgive someone for that?”

Patrick wanted to say it didn’t matter and brush it all under the carpet, but Pete was too intelligent to accept it and too sincere to deserve to be fobbed off. So instead of spouting platitudes, he considered the question fairly. “I suppose,” he said eventually, “when I let myself forget it – or when – I didn’t think about it every moment, you know. And when I didn’t remember it, I liked you such a lot.”

“You’re a better man than me,” Pete said miserably.

Patrick smiled a little. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I was quite prepared to hate you for the first few days. But you make it very difficult to hate you.”

Pete laughed without humour. “I find it remarkably easy,” he said bitterly.

Patrick looked down. “Well, you’re difficult and bizarre and prickly, but I find it remarkably easy to like you,” he said firmly. “But fine, if you’re so intent on self-flagellation, let’s talk this over. Lay it to rest. Why did you accept the offer when I made it? I mean, I didn’t think it was that unusual, but you said,” back in the middle of their awful, awful fight, which Patrick couldn’t remember without hot embarrassment curdling in his stomach, “you said you never intended to go through with it. So. Why did you accept it?”

Pete looked wretched. “I- I didn’t really think it through,” he said slowly, then shook his head. “No, that’s a lie, I did. It’s just – I thought you were wealthy, or your family was, and you were playing recklessly, and losing a fair bit of money so fast and you looked – you looked like a gambler. Someone who can’t stop themselves. I thought I’d – teach you a lesson, stop you ending up like me.” He looked down at his hands. “I suppose that, when I looked at you, I saw me, six or seven years ago, and no one ever bothered to step in then… I was trying to shock you out of it. Make you think. I didn’t know _then_ you didn’t need to.”

Patrick stared at him for a long, long moment, and Pete stared back, meeting his eyes but clearly wary. Then, without meaning to, Patrick started to laugh. Pete watched him, evidently wrong-footed.

“You mean,” Patrick said, when he’d finally got his giggles under control and caught his breath, “that all of this – the last few months, me coming to Highleyton, _everything_ \- happened because you were trying to be the bigger person?”

Pete tried to smile. “I’m not very good at it, I know.”

“You’re _terrible_ at it,” Patrick told him fondly. “It’s just as well you’re too good a person to leave your mistakes. Please, promise me you’ll never try and be the bigger person again.”

“But it got me you,” Pete retorted, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Yes, that _will_ go down well in Society,” Patrick grinned. “Collecting young men from gambling hells for your own personal harem.”

“I didn’t know you were my harem,” Pete said, instantly. “I think you need more than one person to be a harem, anyway – but if you ever feel the urge to lounge around in sheer veils, then by all means, don’t let me stop you.”

Patrick snorted, faintly pink. “Fool.”

“Why did you make the offer, anyway?” Pete asked, his own smile fading. “I mean. You’re not the type.”

“Are you a connoisseur of young men who offer themselves up to pay gambling debts?”

“Not to pay gambling debts, no,” Pete said thoughtfully, clearly willing to make this conversation as easy as possible. “But the whole point of Society is young men and women offering themselves up to the wealthy and influential, and I’ve met my fair share of desperates. You just weren’t the normal kind.”

“I’m so pleased to amuse you,” Patrick said dryly, and Pete looked briefly stricken. “It’s alright,” Patrick said quickly. “You’re right, I don’t make a habit of it.” A horrible thought struck him. “You know that, don’t you? I haven’t – I haven’t done this before. I don’t go round, offering-”

“I didn’t think so,” Pete cut him off quickly. “I just – now that I know you, it seems even less likely. I mean. You’re young, you’re good-looking, you’re not wealthy – your best option was a marriage, and that wouldn’t be so easy if you’d ruined yourself with me.”

“Yes,” Patrick agreed dryly. “Because I am inundated with suitors. No,” he continued, when Pete opened his mouth, evidently intent on waxing lyrical about Patrick’s dubious charms. “I just wasn’t really thinking straight, I suppose. I was – well. I was – it sounds stupid. I was hungry. And panicked. And drunk, when I came up with the plan, and then hungover, which made it _worse_. And the only other option was touching my capital, which would have solved the problem, but I’d have been left with an even smaller income, and – I couldn’t think of any other option, if you wouldn’t let me work it off or – or accept an IOU.”

“The irony is, if I’d known – if you’d told me, I probably would just have let it go,” Pete offered.

Patrick frowned thoughtfully. “I think – well, I think we were both idiots, to be honest. It’s just, I thought I _had_ explained when I said I had no money but my sister would need my good name.”

Pete looked down. “Yes… I don’t think I was listening properly. I was rather stuck on my plan at that point.”

Patrick raised his eyebrows, beginning to smile again. “Being cruel to be kind?”

“Something like that,” Pete agreed ruefully. “I’m an idiot.”

“I think we’ve established we’re both idiots,” Patrick said, amused. “Just out of curiosity, after you’d accepted my ridiculous offer, what was the plan after that? What were you planning to do?” His amusement dimmed a little as he remembered his first afternoon in Pete’s house, worrying obsessively over what was coming next.

Pete didn’t seem to catch his lack of amusement. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, staring up at the canopy of his bed, “I was going to leave you alone in the house to sweat, and then I was going to come back and give you your vowels and tell you not to do it again.” He waved a hand. “You know, ‘run along now, don’t do it again, play nicely with the other children’.”

Patrick grinned. “How philanthropic of you,” he retorted, and Pete actually smiled a little. “So you’d just have packed me off the next day?”

“Basically,” Pete nodded, flinging one arm over his eyes.

“Well then, I’m glad it turned out this way,” Patrick said robustly. “You know. If it hadn’t, I’d never have got to know you at all.”

Pete lifted his arm and rolled his head over to stare at him. “You’re glad that you spent weeks feeling like a prostitute, thinking you were at the mercy of a man you didn’t know and had no reason to believe would treat you fairly or kindly – because you got to know _me_?!”

Patrick nodded firmly. “I would have _preferred_ a different beginning,” he said slowly. “But if I had to do it all over again – if that was the only way I could ever get to know you – well, I probably would.”

“You are a strange man,” Pete told him, with lazy affection, his eyes starting to slide shut. “But I’m glad I know you too.”

Patrick honestly intended to let him sleep, but then another thought struck him. “And what were you going to do if I _hadn’t_ offered that?”

“Hmm?” Pete mumbled, opening his eyes sleepily. “Oh. Well, honestly, you rather took me by surprise; I had to improvise. I don’t really know – make the interview very unpleasant, insult you a great deal, and then, well. Much the same thing.”

“To be honest, I don’t think you could have made it much more unpleasant if you’d tried,” Patrick said without thinking.

“It’s times like these that I’m glad you don’t know me very well,” Pete said quietly.

“I know you quite well, don’t I?” Patrick asked, almost nervous.

Pete nodded, eyes sliding shut again. “S’not a bad thing,” he said. “You just don’t know the worst parts of me. Thassa _good_ thing.”

Patrick couldn’t quite stop himself. “I want to know all of you,” he said very quietly, but Pete seemed to have fallen asleep. Very quietly, Patrick eased himself out of the chair, intending to head to his room, but before he reached the door, Pete flung out a hand.

“Stay,” he mumbled, and Patrick turned around to see Pete smiling up at him from the bed; his heart skipped a bit, and he couldn’t stop himself smiling back.

“As long as you need,” he promised, and sat back down to wait.

**

They spent the rest of the day in comfortable silence, and it was only around dinner time that the conversation really picked up again, while Patrick cajoled, threatened and forced Pete into eating something.

“Oh come on,” Pete snapped. “I don’t even _like_ jugged hare.”

“It’s good for you,” Patrick retorted repressively.

“Nothing that tastes like this could be good for you,” Pete told him crossly, and pushed the plate away. “I’ll have some of yours. What’ve you got?”

“Jugged hare,” Patrick said slowly. “Because we’re eating in your room. We don’t get different courses and choice. We’re at the whim of your kitchens up here.”

Pete subsided a little. “Oh. Well. They should know I hate jugged hare. I’ll send the cook a strongly worded letter of complaint.”

“Which I’m sure she’ll appreciate,” Patrick agreed. “And definitely won’t lead to her spitting in your food until you leave.”

Pete smiled. “They probably do that anyway. I was a horrible child.”

“I’m sure you weren’t all that bad,” Patrick said, which launched Pete into endless stories of his childhood, which he seemed to have spent stealing from the kitchens and destroying large parts of the grounds.

Eventually Patrick took the plates and put them on one of the side tables. “D’you fancy doing anything?” he asked carefully. “Writing, maybe, or reading…?”

Pete gave him an oddly uncertain look. “Well,” he said cautiously. “I was thinking… if you wouldn’t mind…” 

He was so hesitant that Patrick started to worry. “You don’t want me to steal something from the kitchens, do you? Because I’m sure they’d make you anything you asked for. You are, after all, Marquis of Highleyton.”

“And what a wonderful lord I am,” Pete said, deadpan, gesturing at the destruction of his room with a flourish. “No, I was just – well. I was thinking we could play cards?”

Patrick eyed him. “Of course we can play cards?” he said slowly. “But what will we bet with?”

“I dunno. Not money,” Pete added hastily.

“No,” Patrick agreed just as quickly. “For one, I don’t have any. I suppose we could always bet my honour again, but that seems a little _passé_.”

“It is,” Pete agreed gravely. “And if we’re being fair, we should bet my honour.” He paused. “Though that’s actually something of a cheat, because I don’t have any honour.”

“You don’t?”

“Not a scrap,” Pete told him, almost cheerfully. “We could bet with buttons, I suppose – but then we’d either have to ask Mrs Errol for buttons, or rip them off our clothes, and either way I get a lecture about my non-existent morals.”

Patrick couldn’t help it – he laughed. “Alright then, what are our – hang on, we could tear up paper, couldn’t we?”

“I have no shortage of terrible poetry I’d be happy for us to tear up!” Pete agreed brightly.

“No, no – I want to read that. We’ll use blank sheets.”

“Alright. Each piece is – what? A shilling?”

“Oh, no,” Patrick objected. “Let’s be decadent. With our new currency, we can be as profligate as we like. A whole pound.”

Pete gaped at him. “A pound, Mr Stump? Are you trying to ruin me?”

“It has been my goal from the start,” Patrick confided gravely.

“Fine – do your worst. Where’s the paper?”

**

“You can’t bet the entire country of Spain!” Patrick objected. The game had got somewhat out of hand, round about the time they realised they had no more blank sheets of paper, and had to start upping their bets by scrawling different values onto the scraps. It had started out reasonable, with bets going up to five and ten pounds apiece, but it had escalated, and Bob, Windsor Castle and Mrs Lascombe had since been added to the pot.

Pete grinned at him from the other side of the table. “I can. I can _buy_ Spain.”

“You cannot buy Spain. And you can’t bet it either.”

“I absolutely can buy Spain,” Pete told him firmly, insistently putting the piece of paper down. Patrick withdrew it from the pot, and tried not to notice Pete’s ink-stained fingers. “I am, after all, Lord Highleyton. And if you don’t put Spain back right now, I will write it on every piece of paper we have, and I’ll add America for good measure.”

“You can’t keep using that excuse! Being Lord Highleyton does not mean you can buy Spain, and you still have to play by the rules. We agreed, only things in England.”

“Which means you now own Mrs Lascombe,” Pete said complacently, allowing Patrick to hand Spain back to him and trying to sneak it into the bottom of the pile. Patrick smacked his hand.

“I don’t own Mrs Lascombe,” he retorted. “She’s in the pot.”

Pete frowned. “Technically, she’s on a piece of paper.” He paused. “This is all getting a bit beyond me, I’m afraid.” Patrick’s reply was interrupted by a yawn, and Pete glanced at the clock. “Dear God, you should have said something. Come on, Mr Stump. It’s far past your bedtime.”

“Who’re you to be giving me a bedtime?” Patrick asked around another yawn. 

“I can order you to bed whenever I want,” Pete told him without thinking, and there was a long stunned silence as their eyes met. 

Then Patrick half-choked on a surprisingly filthy chuckle. “If I could have seen the face you’re making now two months ago I would never have thought you were a rapine master of seduction,” he informed him.

“How dare you?” Pete asked, recovering himself. “I can absolutely be a rapine master of seduction if I want to be. This just isn’t my rapine face.”

“You have a rapine face?”

“Naturally,” Pete said loftily, and leered inexpertly at him. Then, while Patrick was busy laughing at him, he stood and stretched. “Come on. Bed.”

Patrick allowed himself to be chivvied to the door, then hesitated, hand on the handle. “Actually,” he said, then stopped.

“What?” Pete said finally.

“Could I – could I stay here? Just for the night?” Patrick asked uncertainly. “I- don’t seem to have nightmares when I’m here.”

Pete didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” he said easily. “Bed’s all yours. I’ll be up for a while yet, anyway. Do you mind the candle?”

“’Course not,” Patrick said, around yet another yawn. “I’ll just – go and-”

“Yes,” Pete agreed. “I’ll leave the door open.”

Before Patrick got back, he sat himself down at the writing desk. The night outside was very dark, and he could see his own face in the window, distorted and flickering in the candlelight, but for the first time in a long time, he didn’t so much mind meeting his own eyes.

**

Patrick woke the next morning uncomfortably hot. Opening his eyes, he saw sunlight streaming in through the open curtains, a good deal brighter, which meant it was later than his normal hour. Pete was curled into his side, fast asleep. For a few moments, Patrick stared down at him, feeling oddly voyeuristic as he watched the rise and fall of Pete’s chest and the length of his lashes against his cheek. Then he shook himself and carefully moved away and off the bed, freezing as Pete muttered grumpily, rolled over into the dip where Patrick had been and slept on. He tiptoed to the door and ran back to his room before Parsifleur could discover he’d been absent and chastise him politely for it. Though, he thought as he opened his own door, Parsifleur probably already knew. But surprisingly, Patrick discovered he didn’t mind. 

He dressed quickly and paused for a few moments, debating whether to go back to Pete’s room. The servants would almost certainly bring Pete’s breakfast there and probably Patrick’s, too. Still, he dithered; he didn’t want to return just to watch Pete sleep. Although, he thought, he could always check on Pete and then go to the library for an hour or so, try and find some more terrible gothic fiction. However, when he poked his head around the door of Pete’s room, Pete was sitting up, staring blearily around him. 

“You’re there,” he said, still looking a little sleep-hazy. “I thought I imagined you.”

“I’m too solid to be a dream,” Patrick told him pragmatically. “And too hungry. Have you breakfasted yet?”

Pete rubbed his eyes. “How long have you been gone?”

“About half an hour?”

“Then no. When did you think I had the time to breakfast?” 

“I was just making conversation, honestly,” Patrick told him, and went to follow Pete back into his room before pausing on the threshold, flushing. “Sorry, you need to dress,” he said awkwardly, and Pete eyed at him blankly for a second before realising the problem.

“Oh! Right, yes.” They stared at each other for a few moments in perfect, awkward silence before Patrick cleared his throat.

“I’ll go and see about breakfast,” he said, speaking very fast. “And maybe try and find a book to read for today. I’ll – be back soon?”

“Wonderful,” Pete agreed quickly. “I’ll see you back here soon?”

Patrick stopped before he left, glancing back and offering Pete a tentative smile. “Of course. Any terrible gothic fiction I should bring with me?”

Pete managed a smile. “I think I’m through with terrible gothic fiction for the moment. I don’t know. Bring me something _you_ like to read.”

Patrick smiled back. “Oh, you are going to regret that,” he promised. “Would you excuse me? I need to go and ransack the library.”

Pete waved a regal hand at him, the smile growing just fractionally. “Do your worst, Stump,” he said grandly. “I’ve faced down worse than you.”

“Not after three hours of _Pamela_ , you haven’t,” Patrick told him gleefully over one shoulder. “Get dressed and prepare yourself!”

“That’s not how they usually put it,” Pete muttered, just loud enough for Patrick to hear, but when Patrick turned round to glare at him, the door was already shut.

“Coward!” he told it loudly, and bumped into Parsifleur when he turned back around.

For a moment, they stared at each other in exquisitely uncomfortable silence. Then Patrick edged round his erstwhile manservant, wearing what he was sure was a rictus grin and an astonishing flush. 

“Will you be going downstairs for breakfast, or shall I bring it up for you, sir?” Parsifleur asked him deferentially, effectively halting Patrick’s escape.

“Oh – oh. Yes. Um, would you, please? Bring it up, I mean. That would be so nice. I, um. Excuse me.” 

He fled.

**

When he got back to Pete’s room, armed with novels and breakfasted, Patrick had more or less got over the stunning awkwardness of his run-in with Parsifleur, despite the way the man had kept up an expression of pained forgiveness throughout breakfast. At least he’d managed to make the bed look more or less slept-in. He was relatively certain that even Parsifleur’s forbearance would have cracked if he’d thought Patrick was disporting himself with the master of the house every night.

Not, of course that there was any disporting going on. None at all. Which was, Patrick admitted to himself, a little disappointing. Because yes, of course, Pete was going to make a splendid marriage and be very happy with his appropriately-high-ranking partner, but apparently being in love left one with all the morals and sexual standards of an alley-cat, and Patrick found he really wouldn’t _mind_ a little disporting. After all, it wasn’t as though anyone would know, and it would be nice to have the memories.

He took a couple of moments to call himself back into check before knocking on Pete’s door.

“Come in!” Pete called, a little muffled, and Patrick opened the door to find Pete dressed but dishevelled, and struggling with a jacket.

When he saw Patrick, he gave him a look of naked pleading. “Damn tailor cut it so I couldn’t possibly get into it by myself,” he said, looking rather shifty.

“Well, I’m assuming that’s what you asked him for,” Patrick said calmly, putting down his books and wondering whether to help or just mock. “Why are you even bothering with it, anyway? I don’t know how many times you’ve told _me_ it’s too hot for a jacket, and the weather hasn’t broken yet. Why not just – leave it off?”

“Oh, like you have, you mean?” Pete asked acidly, and Patrick shrugged.

“My jackets don’t need to strong men to get me in and out of them,” he said mildly, and he was probably imagining Pete’s flush. “You’ll just get too hot if you put it on. I wouldn’t bother, if I were you.”

“Well, if I were you,” Pete began, then broke off and frowned. “Actually, never mind. I don’t want to bake to death in this thing.” He dropped it over a chair before arranging himself tailor-style on the bed. “Alright, then,” he said, with the air of one steeling himself for an ordeal. “You promised me Literature. Let’s hear it.”

**

“You know, I never realised how insanely frightening this novel is,” Pete said in tones of wonder, half an hour in.

“Exactly!” Patrick said triumphantly. “Mr B is a terrifying man, and Pamela’s going to be stuck with people who know her social status and remind her of it _for the rest of her life_ , and both of them seem totally alright with that!” He paused. “I got rid of it when I found it in my parents’ library in London,” he added. “I didn’t want Megan reading this kind of thing.”

“Not even so she could copy Pamela’s exquisite morals?” Pete asked, raising his head out of his inelegant sprawl, a wicked glint in his eyes despite his innocently quizzical expression.

“Not even for that,” Patrick agreed with dignity. “Shall I continue?”

“Anything but that,” Pete told him lazily. “I don’t think I could stand any more overt moral messages and covert titillation.”

“Sir, this is one of the foremost literary endeavours of the age,” Patrick told him in badly-feigned indignation. Pete just waved a hand at him. “Alright, then, we’ve got _Clarissa_ , or Miss Burney’s _Camilla_ , or a novel by A Lady.”

“What’s it called?” 

“Sense and Sensibility,” Patrick told him, opening the book to check.

“Oh god, no,” Pete groaned. “It sounds terrible. Can’t anyone write anything without a moral message?”

“Isn’t that what your good friend Lord Byron is trying to do?” Patrick asked slyly. “And what’s the moral message of _The Mysteries of Udolpho_?”

“Well, that’s why I like gothic fiction, isn’t it?” Pete retorted. “It _pretends_ to be interested in the mysteries of the human soul and to show good triumphing over evil, but the writers would much rather write about all the fun evil has than show how anodyne goodness is. They just throw in a few lines here and there about the wonder of God’s works, when actually the mountains are the hideaways of smugglers and evil Counts, and that’s what makes them interesting.”

Patrick couldn’t claim any great interest in the whys and wherefores of gothic fiction, and allowed his attention to wander. “Speaking of the wonder of God’s work,” he said slowly. “Shouldn’t you go to church? While you’re here?”

Pete actually sat up and stared at him. “Patrick, have you _ever_ seen me go to Church?” he demanded. “Apart from to the Chapel Royal, now and then? Why on earth would I go to church while I’m here?”

Patrick stared him down. “For the same reason that you’re going to go and visit your neighbours,” he retorted, and thought guiltily of Megan’s letter, unaddressed and unsent, downstairs in one of the sitting rooms. “It’s good for your reputation as a landlord.”

Pete flopped back down again, scowling. “They don’t care if I come to church or not,” he said firmly. “And I don’t want people staring and making a fuss. If I do go, they’ll put me in the family pew and stare like the town as a whole just got their very own performing monkey.”

“Got the measure of you, then, haven’t they?” Patrick said lightly, and wondered if he dared reach out to pat Pete’s hand. On consideration, he didn’t think he did. “You needn’t go this week. But you should go before we leave, or you’ll just irritate your tenants.”

Pete heaved a sigh, staring sightlessly up at the bed-canopy. “Could we please not talk about my responsibilities for the moment?” he asked plaintively. “Anymore and I’ll start wondering whether Hodges put you up to this. Anyway, you couldn’t come with me, and I’m damned if I’ll brave the wilds of the parish church by myself.”

“Who says I couldn’t come with you?” Patrick said, surprised. “Of course I’ll come, if you want.”

Pete raised his head again. “But you’re Catholic,” he said, confused. “Isn’t it a sin, or something? Mixing with the heretics?”

“If that’s a sin, I’m already condemned several times over,” Patrick told him, grinning. “I don’t think the Almighty will mind all that much, and sacrifice for friendship is the cornerstone of Christianity, don’t you think?” He ended on a pious note, and watched as Pete grimly struggled against amusement.

Finally, he smiled weakly. “Well, fine. I see you’re determined to outmanoeuvre me, so we’ll go before we leave. I never knew you were such a Godly type.”

“It’s not about Godliness, it’s the way people see you,” Patrick argued. “My family has been Catholic for generations, but we’d still make sure the people who lived on our land saw us and interacted with us regularly, even if we didn’t go to church with them. It’s a question of inspiring personal loyalty by being accessible. You’re already in London most of the time – you want to make the most of the time you _are_ here.”

“I’m good at my job,” Pete mumbled, and Patrick back-tracked instantly. Clearly, talking about this now was not a good move. He didn’t know exactly how melancholia worked, but the last few days had taught him that Pete was especially sensitive to criticism at the moment.

“Yes, you are,” he agreed frankly. “I’ve seen you talk with your man of business, remember? I know you make sure your tenants and dependents are looked after, and they know it too. Going to church is just – reminding them that they matter as people, not just problems for you to solve.”

Pete rolled his head over to look Patrick in the eye, and Patrick met his gaze for a long, silent moment. Finally, Pete smiled a little. “Clearly, I have a lot to learn about the human touch,” he said easily. “I promise I’ll go to church like a good boy, provided you come along to hold my hand.” Patrick flushed and looked down at his hands. When he looked back up, Pete had resumed his staring contest with the canopy. “Come on then. Read me Sense and Sensibility, and I promise I won’t make filthy remarks about the heroine.”

**

Patrick read until lunch, and tried to watch without watching as Pete picked at his soup and blatantly ignored the potted venison in favour of making ad-hoc ham sandwiches. Eventually, though, he finished his own meal and sat back, eyeing Pete thoughtfully.

“I thought I might go back to your music room this afternoon,” he said easily. “Try the piano. Did you – maybe you could come with me?”

Pete didn’t even pause. “No, thank you,” he said instantly, without even looking up. “But you go.”

Reluctantly, Patrick gave up the idea. “No,” he said, hopefully hiding his disappointment. “I’d rather go back there with you.” It looked like a beautiful piano, but Patrick would rather wait and gloat over it with Pete than go back by himself. As beautiful as it was, it would sound better with someone else to share it with. “I should send Megan’s letter, though. Do you have your frank here?”

Pete laughed without humour. “The Marquis of Highleyton is never without it,” he said ironically, putting the remains of his sandwich down and pushing the tray away. “My father used to insist on reading every letter he franked, you know. Well,” he added fairly. “Not Mama’s. He was always very good at giving her privacy and space. But when I started writing letters to my school friends, he used to check them to make sure they were up to standard. I don’t think he ever actually paid attention to the _content_.” He paused, stretching his legs out. “D’you know, I think he intended it to be a bonding thing,” he added thoughtfully, and Patrick frowned. “You know. Go over the letters together, make sure everything was correct and as it should be, help me understand how to write a good letter. That’s not how it felt when I was a child, though.”

Patrick paused. “That sound unpleasant for both of you,” he said eventually.

Pete shrugged, and turned to look at him. “Contrary to how I’m behaving now, I _can_ cope with it,” he said, with forced lightness. “And what I should have said, of course, is naturally I have a frank here, and I would be charmed to frank your letter for you.”

“Well, thank you. But I am interested in hearing about your childhood, you know. Nothing you don’t want to tell me, or you don’t want to remember, but I’m more than happy to talk about whatever you want.”

Pete kept his eyes on him, frowning a little. “But what about what _you_ want?” he asked slowly. “I mean, staying in here, with me when I’m – like this. Surely you must have things you’d rather be doing.”

Patrick dithered for a moment, wondering how he could possibly answer without telling the truth – that there was really very little he’d rather do than spend time with Pete. Finally, he settled for a quick smile, and said, “I have it on the very best authority that I’m supposed to entertain you.”

Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say. Pete’s entire expression changed, only minutely, but Patrick hadn’t spent this long with Pete without being able to see the unhappiness and tension on his face. “Sometimes I say stupid things,” he said quietly. “Sometimes I act as though-”

“Pete, no,” Patrick broke in quickly. “That’s not what I meant. I was just – I like being here, alright? I mean, it’s awful that you’re ill, and it must be horrible for you, but I’m your friend, aren’t I? And I enjoy spending time with you when you’re well; just because you’re not well at the moment doesn’t change that. And if I can make you feel even a little better, then that’s what I want to be doing. There is _nothing_ else I’d rather do.”

Pete eyed him for a long moment, then something in his expression relaxed, and Patrick kept his sigh of relief strictly internal. Apparently, by sheer luck, he’d said the right thing. “Go and get your letter,” Pete said, waving him away. “I can promise you I’ll still be here when you get back.”

**

When Patrick got back, Pete was at the writing desk, and only acknowledged his return with a brief nod. It was nearly fifteen minutes later before he finished scribbling and turned back around, gesturing for Patrick to hand over the letter. He franked it and handed it back with a smile.

“Send that, and then we can pay our courtesy calls whenever I’m up and about again.” He paused, and threw his pen down on whatever he’d been writing, lavishly spotting the paper with ink. “There’s always something to look forward to, I suppose. Now, where had we got to with the Miss Dashwoods?”

**

They spent the rest of the day swapping off reading, though Patrick nearly banned Pete when his ridiculous asides started to verge on the frankly bawdy. Pete seemed more consistently engaged, which Patrick rather thought was a good thing – certainly he didn’t seem to be flipping from pastime to pastime, bored and desperate by turns. Then again, he hadn’t wanted to leave his room at all, which probably wasn’t such a good sign. All the same, he seemed less despondent and disconnected than he’d been for the past few days, and Patrick chose to believe that was for the best.

By unspoken consensus, Patrick reappeared at Pete’s door after they’d changed for bed, and Pete just as silently let him in. Neither of them said anything, but there was a certain comfort to knowing someone else was there, proof against nightmares and loneliness.

**

The next few days passed quietly. It wasn’t that Pete was _better_ \- the idea of leaving his room and facing the responsibilities that waited for him outside the door left him exhausted and on-edge still, and that in turn made him loathe himself a little more – but he was getting there. He could feel normality edging closer, and getting a little closer still every time Patrick just let him be. Patrick dealt with the hours of silence and the hours of endless, pointless chatter like he’d been dealing with them all his life, and Pete loved him for it, hopelessly and silently. He wasn’t always there – he received and answered a letter from his sister, spent a few hours in the grounds, made exhaustive tours of the house and reported back to Pete on his findings – but he always came back, and that was the important thing.

It was more of a relief than Pete could really have expressed, knowing that Patrick didn’t care and didn’t despise him for his ridiculous brain and how much it hated him sometimes. And there was an odd, quiet comfort to having Patrick there every night, too. Of course, no one in Society, with their suspicious minds and tendency to gossip, would believe how innocent it was – even Pete couldn’t really believe how innocent it was. But even though Pete had never been particularly good at sleeping properly, just having Patrick in the room made things easier when he wasn’t sleeping; and the reassurance of knowing someone (specifically Patrick) would stay with him when he needed it was extraordinary.

Every now and then, he remembered what he’d said to Greta – how he wanted someone who’d build a life _with_ him, rather than letting him into their life as an adjunct, however loved and welcomed, and he looked at Patrick, and he wondered. Because he’d been in love with Patrick before, and that was one thing. But now Patrick knew one of Pete’s worst parts, and it hadn’t even fazed him. At least, it _had_ , but Patrick had explained that and it made sense, and Patrick had still dealt with it so that he could help Pete. Which was extraordinary, by anyone’s standards, but particularly by Pete’s. People just didn’t _do_ that. His friends were all wonderful, extraordinary people who, he knew in his sanest moments, loved him and wanted to spend time with him. But they didn’t deal with traumas so that they could help him when he was low. 

If Pete hadn’t already loved Patrick, that would have done the trick.

He glanced over at Patrick, deeply asleep in the bed, and smiled a little to himself. It would be nice, he thought a little wistfully, to have this all the time; to have this when it didn’t feel illicit, and Patrick _didn’t_ have to go back to a guest-room in the morning and rumple the sheets to look slept in. But now, he’d take what he could get.

He watched Patrick for a moment longer, then put down his pen and picked up the candle, carrying it over to the nightstand, and climbing into bed before extinguishing it. For the moment, he thought he could sleep.

**

Someone's mouth was on him, kissing a hot path down his neck and body. In his dream, Patrick arched up, trying to get more of the teasing touch but hands pressed him back down, heavy on his hips, keeping him still. Patrick twisted, whining, his hips shuddering upwards as someone slid between his legs, pressing a soft kiss to his hipbone before ducking lower. He had time for one choked breath before the mouth closed wet and hot around his cock and he woke up with a gasp.

He sat bolt upright, his senses reeling, still half-asleep. It took a second for reality to reassert itself: Pete's room, half in darkness, dawn light filtering through the curtains, the sheets kicked to the end of the bed, Pete's body beside him. Patrick dropped back onto his elbows, already embarrassed and still achingly turned on. He shifted a little on the mattress, firmly ignored his cock and prepared to try for sleep again. It was difficult: he felt restless, oversensitive - just the scratch of the sheet against his skin made him shiver. Cross with himself, Patrick rolled over and met Pete's eyes.

The breath stuttered out of him on a gasp and for a moment they just stared at each other. Patrick's heart started to pound in his chest; he was still hard and in Pete's bed and Pete _had_ to know, just from looking at him. Patrick could feel the flush high on his cheeks and his uneven breathing, there was no possibility Pete couldn't have noticed. Patrick wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but Pete didn't look disgusted or awkward or even amused. He was wearing an expression Patrick didn't recognise and his eyes were very, very dark. Patrick swallowed and saw Pete's eyes flicker down to his throat.

"What were you dreaming about?" he asked, and his voice sounded like gravel.

Patrick tried to answer but ended up simply reaching out with a helpless sound and fisting his hands in Pete's shirt, dragging him forward. Pete met him halfway, one hand going to Patrick's jaw, the other to his collar to haul him closer. 

It wasn't the first time Patrick had kissed anyone but it was the first time in at least a year and he couldn't remember ever feeling so desperate. He kissed Pete until he was dizzy, until his mouth felt bruised and his head was reeling. Pete pulled back, staring at him wildly.

“God, Patrick,” he groaned, and dived in for another kiss. The world narrowed to the feeling of Pete’s mouth and Pete’s hands on his skin.

Then Pete made a sound like he was dying and pulled back.

"Patrick," he sounded as though he was about to cry. "We can't."

"Why not?" Patrick asked with what he felt was undue patience. He was hard and breathless and his heart was racing and Pete was _right there_. Unless... "Unless you don't want to, of course," he added, trying not to think of the potential crushing humiliation.

Pete glared at him. "Don't be an idiot. You know I want you - god, I'm not exactly subtle. It's been a job of work just keeping my hands off you these last couple of weeks. But god, Patrick, you _know_ why we can't do this."

"I don't care anymore," Patrick wasn't sure what had come over him.

"You'll care tomorrow morning," Pete said desperately. "Tomorrow morning when it's light, you'll care and you'll hate me. I don't want you to hate me. We _can't_."

He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself rather than Patrick. Patrick took his dignity in both hands, leaned forward and kissed him again. "I don't care," he said steadily, pulling back to look Pete in the face. "I have spent the last _seven years_ doing what I had to do. For once, I want to do something I want."

"Yeah?" Pete's eyes were huge and hopeful.

"I want you." For a moment, Patrick worried that it had sounded silly - he was now wide awake, the heady rush that had come with kissing Pete had faded. Then Pete made an inarticulate sound of exasperation and kissed him, one hand curling around Patrick's jaw to pull him in closer.

It was nothing like Patrick had ever experienced – not, admittedly, that he had much to compare it to. The giggly fumblings he’d had in his school dormitories were a world away from this: Pete’s mouth against his pulse, his thigh between Patrick’s legs, the slow grind of their hips. It was intense and Patrick couldn’t decide what to focus on first – Pete’s hands on his hips, his stuttered breaths against Patrick’s neck, the sparks that flared behind his eyelids whenever they moved against each other. 

It was relentless, and just the right side of too much, and Patrick was crying out, hands clenching on Pete’s shoulders almost before he knew it. 

“Come on, Patrick,” Pete muttered against his ear and Patrick sobbed a breath and came, clutching Pete closer, pressing desperate kisses to his neck and letting his head fall back, breathing heavily. 

Pete thrust again and groaned, following Patrick over the edge. For a moment they lay there, breathing together, then Pete kissed Patrick again, gently, and sat back, pulling his shirt off. He looked a little as though he’d been winded, but there was a smile on his lips. “I’m not sorry,” he said, as he cleaned them up, and lay back down, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s cheek. “Maybe I will be in the morning. But I’m not now. Are you alright?”

Patrick had only just caught his breath, and he huffed out a laugh. “Better than alright,” he said, and reached for Pete, tracing his hand over the tattoos on Pete’s arm, kissing the design on his arm. Pete curled up in his arms, and smiled back at him.

“Told you you’d get to see them sooner or later,” he said, and laid his head back on the pillow. 

Patrick watched him for a few moments, then shut his eyes. Whatever problems came out of this, he’d worry about them in the morning – he felt too good to worry at the moment. He curled into Pete’s side and slept.

**

When they both woke again the next morning, the sun was already high, and the tea that had been left on the table by the fireplace had long since gone cold. Pete had been awake for a little while, just staring up into space and trying to think through what had happened last night, and he sat up instantly when he realised Patrick was awake.

Patrick didn’t seem to notice his awkwardness, stretching languidly before sitting up as well, offering Pete a warm smile. Noticing the breakfast-tray, he laughed a little, and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Looks like I’m too late to try and fool Parsifleur again,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep. “The whole house will be talking about us now.”

“It’s not like they weren’t already,” Pete said, without meeting Patrick’s eyes. “Shall I send for some more tea?”

Patrick glanced at him, and out of the corner of his eye, Pete could see him frowning. “Are you… are you alright?” Patrick asked, an uncertain note in his voice. There was a pause as Pete tried to work out how to answer that, then Patrick took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about last night,” he said, more formally, and clambered awkwardly out of bed to stand uncertainly by the door. “I should go and get dressed,” he added, with a smile he clearly didn’t mean. “I- I really am sorry about what happened,” he added, and he was almost half out the door when Pete found his voice again.

“No,” he said quickly. “No, stop, wait, I didn’t – I haven’t had any coffee or tea yet, you know I’m not fit to function.” Patrick glanced back, and Pete made himself smile normally. “I don’t regret what happened last night,” he said, just so Patrick could be sure, but instead of looking reassured, Patrick came back into the room and shut the door quietly behind him, giving him a long, steady look.

“But you’re not happy about it,” he said quietly, perching on the edge of the bed. “And if I hadn’t been half-asleep, I never would have – I took advantage. You’re not well, you shouldn’t have to deal with being pawed in your sleep-”

Pete glowered at him, wishing again for drinkable tea. “ _No_. That’s not my problem. My problem is that you wouldn’t have done it if you _hadn’t_ been half-asleep. If anyone took advantage, it was me.”

For a moment, Patrick just stared at him – then, unbelievably, he started to smile. “I can’t believe we’re arguing about this,” he said, shutting his eyes for a moment. “Alright, I admit it,” he went on, after a pause in which Pete stood awkwardly by his desk and tried desperately to think of something to say, “I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been half-asleep. _But_ ,” he continued, when Pete opened his mouth to object, “that’s only because I wouldn’t have had the courage. I would still have _wanted_ to, though.”

Pete stared at him, trying to take it in. “So it – you actually _wanted_ to? It wasn’t just because I was… well. Convenient?”

Patrick actually laughed at him. “I don’t think anyone in the world would describe you as convenient, Pete,” he said, and he actually sounded fond. Very, very slowly, Pete started to wonder whether he could maybe actually have this – have Patrick, have a real chance at building a life with someone he loved. “No, it wasn’t because you were _convenient_. It was because you were you.” He paused, then gave him a sly look. “And because you were convenient, of course.”

Pete smiled, feeling lighter by the second. “Well, if you’re sure,” he said slowly. “Because, you know, I’m not normally that kind of boy.”

“Oh, well, if you’re not that kind of boy, then I absolutely must apologise for assaulting you last night,” Patrick told him seriously. “What will it be? Pistols at dawn, or should I just skulk away from society and live in the wilds in penance? You know, for despoiling your honour.”

Pete shrugged, artfully artless. “I think you’d probably have to marry me,” he said giddily, and Patrick paused for a second.

“Well, I’m game,” he said easily, and made for the door. “I have to go and get dressed now,” he said, and disappeared, leaving Pete staring after him, completely pole-axed.

**

When Patrick reappeared, Pete was dressed and looked a little less off-kilter; apparently, blurting out that yes, of course he’d marry Pete hadn’t ruined everything completely. At some point, obviously, they would have to talk about what on earth they were doing, but this morning was bright and warm, and it didn’t really seem like the time for it.

In any case, Pete had somehow managed to wheedle enough breakfast for two out of his recalcitrant staff, and Patrick was starving. 

He let Pete pour him some coffee, and tried not to grin too manically at him, settling instead for demurely helping himself to a turtalong. Pete, the swine, waited until he took his first mouthful before saying anything. Then, he struck.

“So, should I schedule any debauchery into the day?” he asked innocently, and Patrick choked.

He recovered fairly well. “If you have to schedule debauchery, is it still debauchery?” he said thoughtfully. “I always thought debauchery was a more spontaneous thing. It just happens. It doesn’t get carefully worked into your day.”

Pete considered this with far too much gravitas for Patrick’s peace of mind. “Well, the outcome’s still the same, isn’t it? One still ends up debauched. Though I’ve always wondered if being debauched is a temporary state, or whether it’s something you have to live with for the rest of your life.” He grinned a little. “If it’s permanent once you’ve done it once, I don’t need to bother to schedule it in; debauchery is a constant of my life.”

“And how much debauchery leaves you debauched?” Patrick nodded. “Can you get away with just a little debauchery?”

Pete grinned at him across the impromptu breakfast table. “Somehow, I don’t think this is a conversation for a proper young gentleman to have,” he said, lighter than Patrick had heard for nearly a week now. “I don’t think I should be encouraging you to debauch yourself.”

“Be fair,” Patrick told him, feeling almost a little drunk with relief and rising glee. He could actually have this. _They_ could actually have this. “You’re doing more than encouraging. You’re _helping_.”

“That’s me,” Pete agreed, complacent. “I am a facilitator of debauchery.”

Patrick didn’t really think there was anything he could say to that, so he settled for a judgemental silence until he couldn’t keep it up anymore. “Do you think you might like to come outside today?” he asked easily, helping himself to more tea. “It looks like it might be hot – I thought maybe we could go to the plunge pool again.”

Pete gave him a rather stricken look. “I don’t think so,” he said quietly, and Patrick kicked himself for ruining Pete’s otherwise-improving mood. “Not today, at least. Maybe – maybe tomorrow?”

Patrick considered for a moment, then let himself do it, reaching across the breakfast things to squeeze Pete’s hand. “It’s alright,” he said firmly. “It’s not like there’s any rush.”

Pete shrugged, but squeezed back before letting go of Patrick’s hand. “I suppose not,” he agreed, aiming for lightness and missing by a mile. “It can’t be much fun for you, though.”

“We’ve been over this,” Patrick said crisply. “Unless maybe you’d prefer some space-?”

“Not today,” Pete said quickly. “Stay? If you can bear it?”

“I think I can just about manage it,” Patrick told him warmly. “What shall we do?”

**

Even after they’d got through the awkward morning conversation, and once Pete was once again reassured that Patrick didn’t find it dull to spend the day with him in his room and wasn’t going gently insane staring at the same four walls, Pete was still looking shifty. He kept glancing at Patrick and looking away the moment Patrick met his eyes, and was even more fidgety than usual.

Patrick couldn’t work out what he wanted. If Pete didn’t know how to get round to asking for a little more debauchery – despite the fact that he had actual proof that terrible puns and ridiculous conversations worked on Patrick the way sweet talk and flattery on anyone normal – then Patrick wasn’t sure how he could help him. He could always just kiss Pete, of course, but he wanted to be careful; he didn’t want to make the wrong move at the wrong moment and ruin everything. His friendship with Pete was one thing – they’d dealt with so many issues and excitements that Patrick felt it could probably survive a great deal more than a few kisses. But whatever this new aspect was… that was very new. He didn’t want to ruin it by accident.

So he decided to wait it out, and his patience was rewarded. Just when he thought Pete might actually vibrate out of his own skin if he didn’t do something soon, Pete came to a decision, grabbing a sheaf of papers off the desk and shoving them at Patrick.

“There,” he said, with the air of a condemned man. “You wanted to read it, so – there. There you go.”

Patrick took the papers carefully, not quite sure what he was being given. Looking through them, they were covered in Pete’s cramped, hurried handwriting, lavishly spotted with ink and blotches. There were a few clean copies among the pages of messy, careless writing, but they were far outnumbered by the scrawls.

“Is this your poetry?” he asked, glancing through the sheets. Pete nodded without looking at him, ostentatiously leafing through a book. Considering it was _Pamela_ , and Patrick already knew that Pete hated it, he wasn’t fooling anyone. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and settled down to read.

Half an hour later, he let the last page fall into his lap and stared up at Pete – who had long since given up on pretending to read and was now just blatantly waiting to hear what Patrick was going to say. The thought was a terrifying one. He had a horrible feeling that if he said they were all terrible, Pete would never show them to anyone again, if he even kept writing at all. It was lucky, then, that he had absolutely no desire to tell him anything of the kind. “Well,” he said slowly. “I don’t know why you bother to read anyone else’s poetry when you’ve got this.”

Pete narrowed his eyes at him. “Are you mocking me?”

Patrick laughed, surprised. “Good God, no,” he said seriously. “I’m completely serious. This is, these poems, they’re – they’re _fantastic_ , Pete.”

Pete didn’t look convinced. “They’re just scribblings,” he mumbled, looking away.

Patrick stared at him. “If I’m not allowed to call the music I write scribbles, you’re not allowed to call these,” he waved the papers, “anything other than poetry.”

“Most of it isn’t poetry, though,” Pete objected. “Look again, half of them are just – outbursts. They don’t make any sense.”

“Nonsense,” Patrick said firmly. “They make sense to me. They might be a little raw right now, but you can already see the shape they’re going to take, and the phrases are – it’s _really_ good, Pete, I promise you.”

“I don’t think anybody else would be able to see how they’re going to go,” Pete said, but shrugged. “I’m glad you like them.”

“I love them,” Patrick said sincerely. “Want to talk me through them?”

“God no,” Pete said, with a flicker of his usual self. Just at that moment, he seemed terrifyingly vulnerable, but he seemed to be regaining his composure, which was a huge relief. “Anything but that. How about a hand of Commerce? I’ll get the cards.”

He leapt off the bed to find where they’d put the cards from the other night, while Patrick tidied up the sheaf of paper and went to put them back on the desk. When he came back, he caught Pete just before he could sit down, smiling up at him and leaning up to kiss him gently. “Thank you,” he said, when he drew back, “for showing me your writing.”

Pete looked a little stunned when Patrick pulled away, but he managed to smile. “I honestly don’t know whether to give you some sort of innuendo, or just offer to show you whatever you’d like,” he said, and Patrick laughed, taking the cards out of Pete’s hands and starting to shuffle.

“It amazes me that you’ve never been slapped for some of the things you say,” he said easily, taking a seat and beginning to deal.

“What in the world makes you think that I _haven’t_?” Pete retorted, glancing over his cards. “I’ll take a card, please.”

“Oh, really? When was the last time you got slapped, and what did you say?”

“Oh, it was many, many moons ago,” Pete said grandly. “You know. In the distant past when I was still a young reprobate.”

“Whereas now, of course, you’re just an old letch,” Patrick agreed solemnly. “Come on, you can’t leave it there.”

“It turns out,” Pete said, without a shred of embarrassment, “that Tamil is harder to learn than I’d previously thought. I’d learnt a fair bit of Hindustani, but Tamil evaded me and I made some rather embarrassing mistakes. One of the ladies at the court took exception to my mistake, and once it was explained to me, I can’t say I blame her.”

“Oh?” Patrick asked, dealing himself another card and eyeing his hand thoughtfully.

“Turns out the word for ‘mosquito’ is easily mixed up with another word entirely; I was complaining about the number of mosquitoes, and she thought I was complaining about her, ah. Bodily functions.”

Patrick laughed. “And she slapped you?”

“Well, it was an indelicate thing to say,” Pete said, grinning back, his earlier vulnerability apparently forgotten. “Pass cards?”

**

When Pete woke up the next morning, the world had shifted a little. He hadn’t over- or under-slept; he didn’t want to just roll over and go back to sleep; in some intangible way, he felt he could face the day without being exhausted from just putting one foot in front of the other. He wasn’t _better_ , but he was certainly better than he had been.

And to top it all off, as though that wasn’t gift enough, Patrick was still fast asleep next to him in the bed.

He leant over and kissed him just because he could, and wondered whether that would be enough to wake him – Patrick had been sleeping in his room for the last few nights, but he still didn’t really know how deep a sleeper he really was, or how easy it was to wake him. But Patrick blinked awake, startled briefly, then smiled up at him. For a second or so, he clenched his eyes shut, clearing his throat and clearly wishing himself more awake.

“You gave me the fright of my life,” he said, voice still gummed with sleep but remarkably coherent, sitting up as Pete pulled back. “Couldn’t think where I was.”

“Or who I was?” Pete asked, shuffling out of bed and grabbing his dressing gown. “Do you often forget who you went to bed with the night before?”

“Mm, constantly,” Patrick agreed, flopping back onto the pillows. “But I don’t think I’ll ever forget _you_ , so you can rest easy on that point, at least. How are you feeling today?”

Pete considered what he could tell him for a few seconds. On the one hand, even Greta had confused ‘better’ with ‘well’, but he didn’t really think he was up to the challenge of explaining that he wasn’t as bad as he’d been the day before but he’d still been better. “Not so bad,” he said finally, and willed Patrick to understand.

Patrick eyed him for a second from his vantage point on the bed, then smiled suddenly. “Been better, been worse?” he suggested, and Pete nodded. That was it exactly.

“Thank god you understand my brain better than it understands itself,” he said quietly. “I was just about to ring for breakfast. Any requests?”

“So long as there’s coffee, I don’t care what else they bring,” Patrick told him, and forced himself out of bed. “I’m going to dress. Try and be presentable when the servants get here? I don’t think they’re as unflappable as your London staff.”

Pete smiled, just a little. “Nonsense, most of them knew me when I was a child. They’re all terminally unflappable. The ones who aren’t were dismissed. With excellent references, of course. Wasn’t their fault they didn’t realise the house played host to a bevy of hellspawn.”

Patrick ignored him, and leant in to kiss him, chaste and demure, and Pete could feel his smile against his lips. “Get dressed, Pete. I’ll be back shortly.”

**

It wasn’t until after breakfast that Patrick suggested they go to the music room, and Pete agreed after only a token qualm. After all, it would be all too easy to allow himself to stay inside his room forever, and he finally felt like going outside wouldn’t be a massive, terrifying effort.

“Alright,” he said finally. “But you’re going to have to play for me.”

Patrick grinned. “It’s been days, Pete. I think getting me to _stop_ playing will be the trick.” He was already up and out of his chair, and pulling Pete after him. “Come on, we’re wasting daylight.”

Pete let himself be dragged. “How did Mr Trohman get you to do anything?” He wondered out loud. “When you were living by yourself?”

“Oh, we don’t have a piano anymore,” Patrick said, confirming one of Pete’s fears. “I’ll just have to make the most of yours.” He grinned over his shoulder at Pete as he pushed the door of the music room open. “Come on, I want you to play for me too.”

“I don’t play,” Pete protested. “I refuse. You can’t make me.”

“I will withhold sexual favours unless you play the piano for me,” Patrick declared, and for a moment, Pete just stared at him. Then he started to laugh.

“I didn’t know sexual favours had even been _offered_ ,” he said, when he caught his breath. “You genuinely only mentioned them so you could withhold them, didn’t you?”

“I refuse to answer such a slanderous allegation,” Patrick said with dignity, and ruined the effect by grinning. “Come on. Let’s see if this piano held its tuning better than the one downstairs.”

**

By mid-afternoon, they had played all the duets they could possibly think of, including some Pete was absolutely convinced Patrick had made up on the sly; Pete had played for Patrick, badly; Patrick had played for Pete, brilliantly; they had both demonstrated their complete lack of talent on the harp. The remains of lunch were sitting on the table over by the chairs, and Pete was lounging on the window-seat watching Patrick’s profile as Patrick idly picked out a tune on the piano, occasionally augmenting it with a chord or two.

The sun was pouring in, and Pete was beginning to feel uncomfortably hot in his shirt-sleeves – Patrick, still appropriately dressed in jacket and execrable cravat, had to be sweltering. 

“Why don’t you take your jacket off?” he asked for the hundredth time. “You’d be more comfortable, and the staff are already talking about us. You’re already notorious, you might as well be comfortable.”

For the first time he could remember, Patrick didn’t bother to argue. He shrugged out of his jacket, and pulled off his cravat, dropping them both on the floor by the piano. “How does this sound?” he asked, apropos of nothing, and played a slow, half-melancholy tune without pausing to check if Pete was actually listening.

Not that there was much of a chance that he wouldn’t be. “I like it,” he said easily. “But don’t you think the middle passage could be a little different? I feel as though it should grow a little more.”

“But then it wouldn’t fit the words,” Patrick said absently, then froze, shooting him an arrested look. “I mean. I just. You write _really well_. And when I like something, I always feel there should be music to go along with it. I’ve written music about paintings I really liked. I wasn’t trying to – I didn’t mean-”

“Patrick, stop,” Pete said, lazily amused. “I love your music. If you want to write music about my nonsense rhymes, then please, be my guest.” He looked out of the window rather than continue the conversation, but high in his chest, he could feel a warm glow of – what? Satisfaction? Pride? Happiness? – that Patrick had felt inspired by something he’d done. That was something special to cling to.

**

Patrick wondered whether he should say something more – perhaps mention which of Pete’s poems he’d been writing for, or something – but Pete pre-empted him.

"Reminds me of India," he said absently, looking out over gardens from his vantage point on the window seat. "The first summer I was there."

"Oh?" Patrick sat up, intrigued. He'd never heard Pete talk about India before.

"Hot. It was so humid I couldn't breathe. Like - like being trapped in a bath-house. It was beautiful, though - the colours were so much brighter than I'd ever seen here. The sky, the flowers..." He cracked an eye open to grin at Patrick. "Not that it did me much good; I was sick as hell the first month I spent there. Nothing serious," he added when Patrick frowned. "New climate, new food, not to mention we were on the move pretty much the whole time for the first two months. I spent those two months throwing up and feeling sorry for myself."

"What did you do?"

Pete shrugged, an odd movement in a man curled up as he was. "I pulled myself together. Met some people, got the estate running, dragged up some business... by the time six months had gone by, it felt more like home than Highleyton did."

He paused, and Patrick, half out of a machiavellian cunning to keep Pete talking and half out of genuine interest, tucked his legs up under him on the piano stool and said, "Tell me about India."

Pete grinned at him. "What, everything?"

Patrick shrugged. "It's all new to me. Tell me something interesting, then. Something you liked."

Pete thought for a moment and then nodded. "How about music?" He laughed when Patrick visibly brightened, and started to talk about the music out in India, how it differed in the regions he'd travelled in and how he'd tried to learn the sitar, with the result that his housekeeper had respectfully forbidden him from touching it again. From there, they moved onto food, the climate, Pete's business. Pete was telling Patrick how he'd managed to fall off an elephant when Patrick interrupted him.

"Are you all right?" he asked, eyes on Pete's face. "I don't want to tire you out."

Pete startled a little, then smiled at him. “I promise you, I’m fine,” he said easily. “You don’t have to worry. Today is better; tomorrow might be better still. Of course, tomorrow could also be a day when I just want to curl up in bed and pretend not to exist, but today is good.”

“Alright, then,” Patrick said quickly, nodding. “So. This elephant. How did you fall off it again?”

Pete grinned. “The mahout was trying to teach me to use the _ankusha_ , the metal stick they use to control elephants, and I, er. Well, I think it’s safe to say I didn’t get the hang of it.”

Patrick took a moment to himself to marvel at the opening Pete had just given him. “Let me get this straight. You ‘didn’t get the hang’ of using a metal stick?”

Pete drew himself up in mock-offense, then deflated at Patrick’s raised eyebrow. “You have to stab the elephant with it!” he defended himself. “And I _liked_ that elephant. She was nice; I didn’t want to stab her. Her name was Dayita, and she wasn’t very big, but she let me clamber all over her and pretend I knew what I was doing.”

“If she was so good-natured, how on earth did you fall off?” Patrick asked, fascinated.

“Well, the point of the _ankusha_ is to control the elephant,” Pete said, grinning. “And when you don’t really know how to use it, or you don’t want to use it, well. The elephant knows that you’re not in control. Like riding a horse, really – they’ll play up if they think they can get away with it. Dayita just saw some nice trees and thought they looked tasty, so she went lumbering off and Ranjeet ended up having to take over, but by then, I’d already fallen off, and he was pretty busy laughing at me, so Dayita got her tree, Ranjeet got a good laugh, and I damn near cracked my collarbone.”

“Oh, poor you,” Patrick sympathised insincerely, and Pete waved a hand at him. “Did you get the elephant back, at least?”

“Oh yes. She was pretty biddable normally, apparently – the power rush of having no one in charge just went to her head.” Pete shrugged. “But riding elephants and travelling the country – the society of Delhi… even expanding the business – it all helped. I’d been a wastrel in England; without everything I took for granted, access to money and connections and so on, I had to make something of myself. And I didn’t have time to obsess over the things I left behind.”

“Such as?” Patrick asked tentatively. Pete had taken a turn from amused and amusing to introspective, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to break the mood.

Pete glanced at him and smiled. “Mikey, mostly, I suppose.” He paused, and huffed a laugh. “I suppose you ought to know, oughtn’t you? I mean, you already know half of it. Mikey and I were – well, if I’d met him in my decorous old age,” he bowed extravagantly from his window-seat throne, “I’d have called it courting. Back then, I didn’t think anything of it. I suppose I was in love with him,” he said thoughtfully, and Patrick considered that for a second before deciding not to make any snap judgements. Pete was too good a person not to tell him if he was still in love with Mikey, after all, and he’d never actually lied to Patrick about something important. 

“So what happened?” he asked, putting his own interests to one side for a moment. “Why didn’t you marry him?” After all, Mikey was a second son, and if nothing else, Pete’s position made him a more-than-eligible catch.

Pete shrugged. “His family decided that we wouldn’t suit,” he said carelessly, but Patrick wasn’t fooled. It might not hurt anymore, but a younger and less objective Pete had been upset by that, and Patrick could easily imagine his wounded pride and desperate hurt. “I asked his father, you know. If we could get married. It was a charming little interview – he couldn’t have been more pleasant, or more keen to make sure I knew that I married Mikey over his dead body.”

And that had hurt Pete, deeply. “Why not?” Patrick demanded. He knew it was irrational, considering his own relationship with Pete, but he felt bizarrely indignant on Pete’s behalf. 

Pete looked up, startled by the vehemence in Patrick’s voice, and he laughed when he saw the look of outrage on Patrick’s face. “Sometimes I forget that you didn’t know me back then,” he said, the shadows on his face clearing with deceptive ease. “I wonder how different things would have been if you had?”

“Probably not at all,” Patrick said candidly. “I don’t think eighteen year old me would have interested you much. I don’t think eighteen year old me interested _me_ very much.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Pete said lightly. “But it’s probably for the best things happened as they did.”

“With you being rejected?” Patrick frowned. “I don’t want that for you.”

“Well, that’s rather up to you, now, isn’t it?” Pete murmured, and grinned at him. “Anyway, if Mikey’s family had been all for the match, I would never have met you, and then where would we be? I don’t regret it, Patrick, not anymore. That’s what I’m trying to say. I got to India and I had to focus on things other than what I thought was my broken heart.”

“But _why_ would they turn down your suit?” Patrick persisted. It didn’t make any sense.

“Well, they’re a bit above my touch, you know,” Pete said. “Mikey’s grandfather – well, his father, now – is the Duke of Benwick.”

“And he’s a second son who’ll never see the title,” Patrick argued. “And you’re Marquis of Highleyton.”

Pete sighed. “Back then, I don’t think anyone thought it was that likely,” he said quietly. “I was very wild, and I think the general consensus was I probably wouldn’t live to inherit the title.”

Patrick stared at him, horrified. “Dear God, that bad?” he said softly. 

“Oh yes,” Pete nodded, assuming an ease he clearly didn’t feel. “My father wasn’t entirely without cause when he blamed me for my mother’s death; I think I literally worried her sick. I mean, I know I didn’t kill her,” he said hurriedly, when Patrick opened his mouth to object. “But I didn’t help. Anyway, Mikey’s family thought I’d either die and leave Mikey a widower, or ruin the family estates and leave him penniless, and you can’t blame them for wanting to look out for him. I mean, I certainly wasn’t _happy_ about it, but I can at least understand it.”

You can now, Patrick thought, and said nothing. The interim of five or six years had certainly mellowed the hurt, but it was still a subject that could catch Pete on the raw, that was for certain. “Well, at least you proved them wrong,” he said, instead of trying to sympathise over old wounds.

“Mm,” Pete agreed, glancing out over the lawns again. “Neither penniless nor dead. But I don’t know that Mikey and I would have suited, in any case. He’s an excellent friend, one of the best men I know, but I don’t think I’d want him for a husband. Not anymore.” He stretched, and shot Patrick a lightning grin. “In my ancient wisdom, I think I’d look for different things in a person.”

“Oh?” Patrick asked innocently. “What would they be?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” Pete said thoughtfully, ticking the points off on his hand. “Musical, prissy, funny, not a fan of gothic-”

“You’re ridiculous,” Patrick told him firmly, and he just knew that he was flushed. “So you and Lord Michael-?”

“Our torrid love affair is confined to history and scurrilous gossip,” Pete confirmed, standing and heading over to the bell-pull. “D’you fancy some tea? Someone should clear these lunch things, anyway.”

“Mm, please,” Patrick said absently. “And you’re really alright with that?”

“With tea? Of course-”

“No, idiot,” Patrick retorted, unfolding himself from the piano stool and going over to the chairs. “You and Lord Michael. Being over.”

Pete glanced at him, and smiled. “Of course I am,” he said, and grabbed Patrick’s hand when he got close, pulling him in for a quick kiss. “You’re _right here_. I really would be an idiot if I wanted anything else.”

**

The next few days were an exercise in getting things back to normal, Patrick found. It wasn’t that Pete wanted to pretend the last week or so hadn’t happened – and there were several excellent reasons why Patrick was shamefully grateful for that – but he certainly didn’t want to dwell on it, and Patrick couldn’t blame him for it. Instead, they went through the motions of normality, on the basis that normality could be faked until it actually felt normal again. Patrick hadn’t shared Pete’s complaint, and he had at least left Pete’s room regularly, but it felt strange, even to him, to spend their days somewhere else, actually going down to meals and observing the daily routine that they’d ignored for the last week.

The only thing Patrick particularly hated about the whole thing was the way Pete’s staff treated him – either as a dangerous man who might flip at any moment, or with frankly patronising gentleness, like a wild animal who needed to be carefully tamed. Pete didn’t seem to notice, but Patrick noticed for him, and it grated on him.

Eventually, he snapped. “Why don’t we spend the day out on the grounds?” he asked, after Mrs Waybridge had spent fifteen minutes telling Pete how he didn’t need to worry about running the household, she had it all under control. If she’d been any more insulting, Patrick thought grimly, she’d have patted him on the head and sent him away with a boiled sweet. He really didn’t think he could take much more of this – didn’t they realise that Pete was still _Pete_ , no matter what illnesses he might have? Did they even know who Pete was?

Pete glanced at him. “Well, I should really meet with my estates manager,” he said slowly, “I’ve been putting it off since we got here, and he’s starting to sound a little desperate. But after that?”

“I could go down to the stables and see which horse terrifies me least?” Patrick offered, willing to take what he could get.

Pete grinned. “I think we’ll go on foot,” he said kindly. “I don’t think we’ve got a horse up to your exacting standards.”

“And I don’t know how much laudanum it takes to drug a horse into submission,” Patrick agreed cheerfully. “Shall I try and get us something from the kitchens, then? We really could make a day of it.”

“And if you ask, they won’t remind you of all the jobs you’re not doing,” Pete nodded. “I like this plan.”

“True – they’ll just think I’m an uncultured boor who doesn’t know about duty and hard work,” Patrick said. Pete’s staff weren’t exactly in his good books at the moment – he didn’t much care what they thought of him. 

Pete gave him a long look. “They’d better not say anything of the sort,” he said firmly. “After all, at some point, well.” He shrugged. “My headaches might be yours, too.”

Patrick froze for a second, not quite sure what to do with that thought. They hadn’t discussed anything of the kind – not really. Not seriously. And at some point, he thought they would have to, but now wasn’t the moment, so he just smiled. “I’ll find us a few books and get us some food while you deal with your estates manager,” he promised. “And the sooner you’re finished with him, the sooner we can head out.”

“I shouldn’t be more than an hour or so,” Pete told him, standing to leave. “I keep in regular correspondence with him anyway, and I’m fairly certain even we would have noticed any major problems that cropped up over the last week or so.” He bent down to kiss Patrick – which was still a joy all its own, these easy kisses and their unspoken affection – and pulled back before they could get carried away, heading for the door. “You’d better get a move on, Mr Stump; it’s going to take you at least half an hour to wheedle a picnic out of Mrs Waybridge.”

**

Mrs Waybridge proved almost as recalcitrant as Pete had predicted. “It’s too hot out,” she said firmly. “You’ll both of you get sunburnt, and the food will spoil. It’s just a waste of good food.”

Patrick carefully didn’t point out that it was Pete’s food to spoil, and if he wanted to take that risk, then he could. Apart from anything, it would be rude to say it, and while he was irritated with Pete’s staff as a whole, he wasn’t willing to insult them. “I understand that it’s a risk,” he said, smiling and trying to speak as calmly as possible – he hadn’t had to deal with this kind of domestic issue in, well. Ever. “But I’m sure you wouldn’t steer us wrong, Mrs Waybridge. That’s why I asked you. You know best what foods we could take.”

She sniffed. “And his lordship’s lunch is all planned. I shouldn’t be surprised if the cook hadn’t started on it already.”

Patrick was beginning to feel distinctly outmanoeuvred. “Then we’ll go this afternoon,” he said easily. “Take a light tea with us. The days are much longer now – we probably wouldn’t need to come back for supper.”

Mrs Waybridge drew herself up. “His lordship’s not been well, sir,” she said indignantly. “Do you expect me to let him stay out at night? It would be criminal.”

“You know better than me that no one ‘lets’ his lordship do anything,” Patrick said patiently. “If he sets his mind to something, he’ll do it. And he asked me to ask you for a picnic to take out with us; I don’t want to disappoint him. He’ll probably just come down here himself, and as you say, he’s not been well.”

He watched in some satisfaction as she dithered a little. He was pretty sure he’d won, but he wasn’t willing to push the matter – let her come to her own decision. “I’m sure something can be arranged, sir,” she said stiffly. “And it might do his lordship good to get out into the open air.

“I agree completely, ma’am,” Patrick said with a smile. He could afford to be gracious now – he’d carried the day, after all. “I’m sure whatever you come up with will be perfect; his lordship has such faith in you.”

She sniffed again, but her express was rather pleased. “And I can see you’ve got the measure of him, sir,” she said, and Patrick honestly wasn’t sure whether that was a compliment or not. He chose to smile modestly rather than question it; nothing good could come of asking what she meant. “I’ll have this picnic ready for you as soon as I can.”

“Thank you so much,” he said, and took himself off in the secure knowledge of a job well done. A small victory, perhaps, but a victory all the same. 

Pete met him in the hallway where Patrick was waiting with the picnic. “How was the estate manager?” Patrick asked, grinning at the darkling look Pete shot him. “Has everything fallen to rack and ruin in your absence? Are you ruined?”

“Not even at all,” Pete said glumly.

“Oh, poor you,” Patrick said sweetly. “How hard it must be. Young and rich with all the belles of London at your feet.”

“Stop mocking me and let’s go and have this thrice-bedamned picnic before someone waylays me and forces me to go over crop rotations again.”

“Or the food will spoil out of sheer spite,” Patrick agreed. “Mrs Waybridge made any number of dire predictions about it.” He followed Pete into the library and out onto the terrace, making their way down the steps into the gardens. 

“Was she awful?” Pete asked. “Let me guess, she predicted death, mayhem and the collapse of the British empire if we had a meal outdoors.”

“More or less,” Patrick agreed, cheerful. “So where are we going?”

“I thought we could head down to the lake,” Pete suggested. “I think it’s a little cooler today, but it might be nice to swim.”

They both looked doubtfully up at the sky.

“Maybe,” Patrick conceded warily. “How far is it?”  
“A bit of a way,” Pete said gaily, leading the way out onto the lawn.

“I insist up on an island,” Patrick said, following him. “If we’re going to see your lake, I expect at least an island. And a folly, on the island. And a ghost, which makes weird lights in the middle of the night.” He glanced at Pete and was arrested by the shifty look on his face. “Oh, no. Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I wish I could lie,” Pete said apologetically. “But it’s not a very _big_ folly, and we can’t get to it anyway, because the rowboat rotted.”

“Oh, well, if we can’t get to it, I shan’t even bother coming,” Patrick said, making to turn round, and Pete grabbed his free arm, drawing his hand into the crook of his elbow. 

“I promise you we’ll get to the folly one day,” he said sincerely. “We could always swim. Come on, it’s not too far.”

**

“That,” Patrick panted fifteen minutes later, “was not ‘a bit of a way’. And you didn’t tell me your estate had hills.”

“I forgot,” Pete wheezed and took the basket from Patrick just as they reached the brow of the hill, Patrick noted bitterly. “But look, we’re here.”

Patrick looked at the lake. After their trek here, it looked wonderfully cold and inviting, and he was half tempted to abandon Pete, picnic and all, and just run straight for the water. He could see the folly on the little island, but the shore was heavily clogged with reeds; they would definitely need a rowing boat. 

“I’d say I’d race you,” Pete said, “but I’m tired. Also, I’d probably overshoot and drown in the lake, and Mrs Waybridge would be only too delighted to replace me with Andrew. So. No.”

“I’m not running anywhere,” Patrick said firmly, and they began the trek down the hill.

Eventually they settled a little way from the water, close enough to paddle but not, as Pete pointed out, close enough for Patrick to push him in. 

Too tired and hot to eat, Patrick dozed on the blanket, while Pete amused himself with one of the books that had made the picnic basket so very heavy. He must have drifted off because when he woke up, Pete was watching him with a small smile. 

“Whassit?” he rasped, trying to come back to himself. Pete handed him the bottle of water and grinned.

“You sleep with your mouth open, did you know?”

Patrick took a couple of gulps of water, and started to feel a little more like himself. “Thanks,” he said, sarcastic.

“No, no – it’s nice to know I’m not the only one who has flaws,” Pete said cheerfully. “So, I was thinking. You should probably go back to your house when we go back to London.”

Patrick could actually feel his face freeze. What did Pete mean? He would have understood if Pete felt whatever they were doing here was little more than a brief holiday fling, but just casually announcing he was done with Patrick seemed unusually callous for Pete.

Pete evidently realised what Patrick was thinking, because he looked horrified. Patrick could see the cogs whirring frantically as Pete started to back-pedal. “It’s not whatever you’re thinking!” he said instantly. “It’s just – I thought you _guessed_ , I mean. I want to marry you, and I can’t court you properly if you’re living with me. Apart from anything, people will talk.”

Patrick just stared for a long moment, letting the words ‘I want to marry you’ sink in. “Pete,” he said, horribly sure he was right, “you can’t marry me.”

Pete frowned. “Oh? Why not?”

Patrick laughed. “How long have you got?” He ticked off the answers on his fingers. “You’re an aristocrat, I’m gentry at best. You’re incredibly wealthy, and as we’ve pretty well established, I have nothing – everyone will call it a cream-pot marriage. Society adores you, but they don’t have any idea who I am.”

“Yes,” Pete said slowly, “but I can’t help but notice that nowhere on that list did you say you don’t _want_ to marry me.”

“What I want doesn’t come into it.”

“Yes, it does,” Pete said, edging closer. “Because I don’t care about any of the other things, but I care about you.”

Patrick really didn’t want to be charmed by that line. “It’s just, I don’t think it’s a very good idea,” he said weakly as Pete’s hands slid under his shirt. He shivered, trying to make a grab for Pete’s wrists. “You’re trying to distract me,” he said, a little breathlessly.

Pete grinned. “Yeah, because you should marry me. Is it working?”

“No,” Patrick said, giving the lie to his own words by arching up into Pete’s hands.

“Patrick,” Pete said firmly, pulling back a little to meet his eyes. “If you don’t want to marry me, that’s fine. I understand. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t actually think I’m irresistible – but you need to _tell_ me.”

“Of course I want to marry you,” Patrick said grumpily – Pete’s hands had stopped moving. “I love you. But-”

“What?”

“What?” Pete was gaping at him, and Patrick sighed impatiently. “Of course I love you, you idiot – what, did you think I gibber insanely for fun? I don’t turn this colour for just anyone, you know, only around you.” He stopped when he realised he was gabbling, but Pete hadn’t seemed to notice, judging by his ridiculous grin.

“You love me,” he said triumphantly. “You love me and that means we have to get married, because I love you too. You see? You love me, and I love you, and that means that the only logical conclusion involves a church, probably a bishop and a large audience who hate each other and have only turned up for the free food.”

“Pete,” Patrick said helplessly, sprawled underneath Pete, while Pete waxed lyrical about the hell of their wedding. It was all going a bit fast. “That’s not necessarily how it goes.”

Pete looked down at him. “What? Of course it is. I don’t-”

“Just because we’re in love doesn’t mean any of the things I mentioned earlier have gone away. I’m still penniless, you’re still – well. You.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” Pete demanded indignantly.

“So much I don’t even know where to start,” Patrick said firmly. “You’re _Lord Highleyton_. People are going to expect things, and they won’t expect me.”

Pete looked mulish. “I don’t give a damn what they expect,” he said stubbornly. “You love me. And I love you. And at some point, even if I have to wait for _years_ , we’re getting married. And I will wait for years. Out of sheer spite, if I have to.” And he leant down and kissed the protests right out of Patrick’s mouth.

For a few moments, the world dissolved into a haze of clinging kisses. Patrick shivered as Pete bit at his lip, scrabbling to get his hands under Pete’s shirt, his focus narrowing to skin on skin and Pete’s ragged breathing. Things were getting interesting when Pete tore himself away, sitting back on his heels and grinning at Patrick’s outraged expression.

Patrick sat up unwillingly, glaring at Pete. “Is this your way of getting me to agree to marry you?” he asked, wondering how he could get things back on course. At this point, he didn’t even care that they were out in the open.

“Of course not,” Pete said airily. “I haven’t asked you yet. For once in my life, I want to do things properly, so, you know.” He leaned forward and kissed Patrick on the nose, drawing back lightning fast as Patrick reached for him again. Patrick took a deep breath and reminded himself that punching Pete wouldn’t actually add to the romance of the moment. “We’re not doing anything until we’re safely married.”

“Shouldn’t that be a two-person decision?” Patrick asked, and Pete shook his head gleefully.

“Nope! I’m not ready and you can’t make me do anything. You’re not going to pressure me into sex, are you? Because I will start calling you Mr B; I’m afraid for my virtue.”

“You don’t have any virtue,” Patrick retorted. 

“Well, no… But you do. And if anyone starts any nasty rumours, we’ll be able to deny them and mean it. And you can’t lie. You go red and stutter.”

“That’s the stupidest– since when do you care what people think?”

“I don’t care what people think about me,” Pete said, with disarming honesty. “But I care what they think about you.”

There wasn’t really anything Patrick could say to that. He sighed and leaned up to kiss Pete softly on the mouth. “I still think it’s stupid. I mean, technically we already-”

“No,” Pete said hurriedly. “That was-”

“If you say ‘a mistake’-”

“No! No, it was silly of me. I let myself get carried away.”

“Well, why not once more for the road?” Patrick asked. “There is literally no one else here.”

Pete gave a hilarious agonised whine. “I’m here,” he said, ridiculously apologetic.

“Well, I would hope that you wouldn’t have to work out what we were doing, being a participant, and all,” Patrick said slowly. “But I suppose, if it really means that much to you… Fine. I still hate you, though.”

Pete grinned. “No, you don’t. You love me. You said it. No take-backs.”

Patrick shot him a glare, but said nothing. Instead, he flopped back onto his back and watched the clouds pass overhead. “You had better make it worthwhile eventually,” he said. “Or I might die.” Pete snorted.

“Guess you’ll just have to marry me, then.”

“Guess I will,” Patrick agreed, and they settled back into comfortable silence.

**

_Dearest Patrick,_

_Pete’s redoubtable housekeeper tells me that you’re in Highleyton and no doubt thus enjoying varying states of sin. If you come back expecting a sin-baby, Gabe and I will take you in. We won’t even call it Shame, or Sin of Fornication or some-such sobering name._

_Anyway, we hope you’re well. London is boring, which is why I’m writing to you. You must come back – we’ll still be bored, but we’ll be bored together. And despite your doubtless frequent forays into the realms of debauchery, you must be bored too. It’s the countryside. Sheep and Pete are your only diversions, and frankly, I’d go for the sheep. They’re far better conversationalists._

_There are a few new faces in Town, one of whom Gabe and I have rather taken to. This is another reason you must come back, so you can meet him – he likes music, and I’m sure you’ll like him. We’ve been taking him round, introducing him to all the right people, and most of the wrong ones, and he seems to like London well enough. Please come back. We’re so bored. And you and my lord Highleyton are the best entertainment I’ve had since I met Gabe. But you’ve heard that story several times, and I won’t waste paper. If you can’t come back instantly, I will accept a letter, preferably with a detailed account of your Fall from Virtue._

_I beg to remain – well, I’ll be upset if I don’t remain, at least – your very good friend,_

_William_

**

_Dear Bill,_

_Be reassured – if I find myself with a sin-baby, you’ll be the first person I come to. I’ll even call it William, as a tribute to your great kindness, and that really will get Society talking. However, I am as yet unsullied, so your vicarious pleasures will have to wait until later._

_We go on very quietly here, though I’ve not resorted to sheep for conversation. Pete’s estate is beautiful, and his servants terrifying, and with the weather so hot, we’ve mostly been escaping into the grounds. We even went to Church yesterday, so don’t talk to me about boredom, or Falls from Virtue. I think that was the entire gist of the sermon I didn’t listen to. And the rector either knew I’m Catholic, or I assumed I was no better than I ought to be, because he kept looking at me as though I might either tempt the entire congregation into sin, or burst into flames and burn down the rood screen._

_I’m intrigued to hear about your new friend – does Gabe like him? Does he like Gabe? Is this a repeat performance of that one man who asked you to run away with him? And is it true Gabe killed him, or was he only maimed a little bit? Joking aside, I look forward to meeting him, but I don’t think we have any plans to return to London immediately. It’s still far too hot, and I’m enjoying Highleyton. Barbarous uncultured wasteland though the countryside may be, I’m finding plenty to amuse myself here, and before you raise your eyebrows, it’s all good clean fun. (Pete is somewhat recalcitrant on that point.)_

_We are going on Pete’s bread-and-butter visits tomorrow, which should prove interesting – if only because Megan is, against all probability, staying nearby. I shall take it upon myself to give her your best wishes, though it must be over ten years since you last met._

_I’ll send you an Express when we come back to London. Until then, I remain, grudgingly,_

_Your good friend,_

_Patrick_

**

“His lordship, the Marquis of Highleyton, and Mr Patrick Stump, your ladyship.” A butler so old he looked almost mummified had led them to the door of the salon where they were received by a lady swathed in shawls, and wearing the fashions of a decade ago, and an expression of wistful benevolence.

She came forward in a flurry of shawls and yellowing lace to embrace Pete. Pete, rather embarrassed, bestowed a kiss on her cheek.

“Peter! Let me look at you,” she said fondly, drawing back and holding him at arm’s length. “India must have agreed with you, but you could stand to put a little more weight on, you know. All those layers won’t keep you warm in winter! You’ll need wool if you don’t fatten yourself up. And who is your friend?” She smiled politely at Patrick, who bowed. He hadn’t been expecting Lady Florzil. He’d been expecting another of the Society battleaxes who looked on Pete – and therefore Patrick – with stern disapproval. Instead, Lady Florzil looked a lot like the maiden aunt who’d lived with them for a few years – the one who’d always smelt faintly of lavender and had enthusiastically taught him to read.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you earlier,” Pete said apologetically as she wafted them towards a seat. “It turns out estates take far more running than I thought.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re doing marvellously,” she said kindly. “My husband, God rest his soul, always said you’d do wonderfully with that big old barrack of a house. Sit down, dear boys, and introduce me to your friend, Peter, dear.”

“Oh! Sorry, of course. Lady Florzil, may I present my good friend, Mr Stump.” Pete bowed elegantly, and Patrick awkwardly followed his lead. Lady Florzil beamed at them indulgently, as though they were small boys performing in a pageant. It was a relief to sit down and feel the social rigmarole of introductions might be over – but the moment they were both settled, Patrick realised just how close they were sitting to each other, and watched as Lady Florzil looked at them, a very knowing look in her eyes.

“And how long will you be staying in the country, Mr Stump?” She asked politely.

“As long Pe- er, Lord Highleyton stays, I think, my lady,” Patrick said awkwardly. Lady Florzil turned huge reproachful eyes on Pete.

“You’re not staying? But you’ve barely been here a week-”

“I’ve been here a month,” Pete said weakly.

“And you’re only just visiting now?” She said, shaking her head. “Oh, never mind that,” she added, waving a shawl at Pete when he went to explain. “Look at you, though, Lord Highleyton! And it seems only yesterday that your mother was bringing you over in your little nankeen suit… oh, I was so sad when she cut your hair.”

Patrick shot Pete a gleeful look. “A nankeen suit?” he asked innocently. “Oh, how _sweet_ he must have looked.”

“He did,” Lady Florzil said fondly. “Do you know, he looked just like my little boy?” She gestured at a portrait of a very blond child, and Patrick frowned for a moment, before catching Pete’s eye. Pete shook his head quickly, and they turned back to Lady Florzil as one. “Of course, Pete was always in and out of this house – normally when he was in trouble at his own – and things have been very quiet without him. But of course, dear Andrew has been around, and even your dear sister, once or twice. They’re both married now, aren’t they? Of course, the weddings were in London, I believe, and one hears so little nowadays when one won’t go into the city… I don’t like London,” she told Patrick in an aside. “It’s far too big. And when one gets to my age, it gets very difficult not to be rather a drag on other people, so I stay out here, and it suits me very well. And dear Peter always wrote so regularly when he was at school, and even a few letters from India, you know – they did arrive, but you never gave me an address to write back to.” She smiled sweetly at Pete. “I wrote via the East India Company once or twice, but I’m afraid I wasn’t very deedy about it – I had no idea which city they were based in, or even, really, what cities there are in India; I had to consult my globe.”

“I was in Mysore for a few months,” Pete said apologetically. “I did eventually settle in Orissa, but I was very nomadic for the first couple of years. But I’m glad you got my letters – I wouldn’t have wanted you to worry.”

She smiled rather sadly. “Oh, Peter, dear, I always worry about you and your brother and sister. Tell me, are they _happily_ married? And what about you? Shouldn’t you be looking to settle down?” Once again, her eyes flickered between Pete and Patrick, and she beamed benevolently at them. Once again, Patrick was acutely aware of just how close he and Pete were sitting; he could feel the heat from Pete’s body bleeding through the fabric of his coat.

Pete laughed. “I believe both Andrew and Hilary are very happily married, ma’am,” he said lightly. “And as for me, my plans aren’t precisely fixed, but I have my eye on someone.” Patrick went scarlet, but Lady Florzil’s expression remained pleasantly indulgent.

“And what about you, Mr Stump? Are you married?”

“Oh, um. No, ma’am,” he stammered.

“I don’t suppose you could make such an extended stay with Peter if you were,” she laughed. “He’s a good boy.”

**

“And there you have it,” Pete said as their carriage rattled onwards towards their next visit. “The last woman in Christendom who thinks I’m a ‘good boy’.”

“I think you’re good,” Patrick objected.

Pete openly laughed at him, but he looked charmed. “Do you actually know me? Lady Florzil doesn’t see me very often anymore, so there’s some excuse for her. None at all for you – you should know better, Mr Stump. You must just have the soul of an angel, as I have long suspected.”

“Oh, no – I know quite well that you’re a reprobate,” Patrick said easily, grinning across at him. “You won me in a game of cards. That sort of thing doesn’t really leave one with many illusions.”

Pete laughed, and Patrick took a moment to be thankful that they could joke about this. “Thank you for keeping quiet when she was talking about her son, by the way. I know it must have seemed ridiculous, but she would have been dreadfully hurt.”

“I thought as much,” Patrick nodded solemnly. “What happened?”

“He died,” Pete said bluntly. “Scarlet fever, before I was born.” Patrick nodded – his own mother had lost two children between him and Megan. “I believe there were complications – they never had any others, but they both loved children, and the three of us were the nearest. She spoiled all of us rotten, but I choose to believe I was her favourite.” Patrick could easily believe it. It wasn’t difficult to imagine Pete running in and out of a house where he’d actually been made to feel welcome and wanted, rather than relegated to the servants, sly smile and bright eyes winning him a free pass whenever he wanted.

“I’m delighted to have met her,” he said seriously, and turned his attention to their next visit.

**

Patrick fidgeted in the carriage all the way from the Turners’ to the Hydes’. Not that the Turners hadn’t been nice – they had been very nice, and delighted to be accorded the honour of a visit from the county’s greatest landowner, but they had been colourless in the extreme. Mr Turner was every inch the gentleman, and not the slightest bit interesting; his good lady was very amiable and kind, but clearly more interested in her garden than her guests.

In any case, he was about to see Megan, and that would have made it difficult to concentrate on the Turners, even if they had both been first-class wits.

By the time they were ushered into Sir William and Lady Hyde’s elegant sitting room, he was all-but vibrating with nerves, and having to offer the assembled company a decorous bow didn’t help at all. Megan was _right there_ , grinning at him as only Megan could, and sitting through the first few minutes of awkward small-talk was hell. Finally, Lady Hyde took pity on them, and suggested that he and Megan might like to explore the gardens.

“We’ve so enjoyed having Megan to stay,” she said kindly, “and I know how fond Megan is of the garden. I’m sure she’d love to show you round.”

“You hate the outdoors,” Patrick said in an undertone as they went through the French doors arm-in-arm. “It’s always a job of work getting you outside.”

“I think it’s called ‘tact’, Patrick,” she grinned at him. “So, brother mine, let me look at you. You look better,” she said frankly, taking in his appearance at a glance. “Less harried. So, tell me everything – what’s Lord Highleyton like?”

“You just met him,” Patrick said dryly.

Megan gave him a patronising look. “No, I curtseyed at him and said ‘good afternoon’,” she retorted. “Kitty Blake was right, though. He is _very_ good looking.”

“Bit horse-faced, don’t you think?” Patrick said charitably.

“Aren’t you just the fond suitor today?” Megan retorted, and squeezed his arm. “So, are you…?” she trailed off suggestively.

“Are we what?” Patrick asked, hoping he sounded sufficiently forbidding.

“You know,” she said firmly. “You needn’t play coy with me. Is he courting you? Are you going to get married?”

“I- I don’t know!” Patrick said, a little nervous in the face of so many questions. “Why don’t we talk about you? How is school?”

“School is being shut up with fifty other girls in very small rooms. As a highlight, we get taken into the village every month to see a morality play performed by the local yokels. Last time we saw _Everyman_ , I think every man was in it. Along with every woman and child, and possibly a few cows. I want to talk about you.”

“There’s very little to tell.”

“Not according to the way Lord Highleyton’s looking at you. If you’re pretending that you’re not courting, you’d best drop him a hint – he’s not being very subtle.” She smiled up at him. “So. Tell me _everything_. How’s London? How’re Mrs Sowerby and Joe? Who’s giving all the balls, and are you being invited everywhere?”

“London is fine – Joe and Mrs Sowerby are fine, many people are giving balls and Lord Highleyton takes me to a lot of places. Everything is-”

“Fine,” Megan finished for him. “You really are terrible at conversation, Patrick.”

“You should ask Pete to update you,” Patrick said, grinning down at her. “He tells the most outrageous stories.”

“‘Pete’, is it?” Megan said with a sly grin.

“Meg, I call Viscount Felson ‘Bill’,” Patrick pointed out.

Megan shrugged. “Oh, Bill’s Bill,” she said, with all the sangfroid of someone who had known the current Viscount Felson since she was born. “Being on first name terms with the Marquis of Highleyton is something else entirely. And he _likes_ you.” 

“Anyway,” Patrick said, rallying. “I don’t know whether we’re going to marry, so don’t start planning things just yet.”

“Not even my come-out?” She asked innocently. “I’ll be Out myself in a year or two, won’t I?”

Patrick shut his eyes. Since re-immersing himself in polite society, he had remembered how costly it all was, and horrifying as the thought was, it didn’t look as though he’d be able to bring Megan out by himself. Not without ruining himself in the process, though that was still an option. “Molly,” he said, and saw her smile at the resurrection of her old nursery nickname. “You know I want you to be able to make your curtsey, but… I haven’t been completely honest with you, and we’re – we’re not doing so well. Financially, I mean.”

She squeezed his arm again. “I know, Patrick,” she said gently. “Did you think I thought my brother just didn’t want me home for the holidays? Don’t worry about it. You look better than you did a year ago, anyway. Clearly, Lord Highleyton is good for you.”

Patrick felt himself smile against his will. “He certainly thinks so,” he said lightly, and let Megan lead him off into a discussion of the piano lessons offered at school.

**

By the time Patrick and Megan had completed their very slow circuit of the rose-garden, Pete and Georgiana Hyde had come out to look for them, and even from a distance, Pete looked hunted. 

Megan laughed. “Georgiana is winding him up.”

Patrick eyed the couple on the terrace and smiled. Georgiana, a precocious sixteen year old, knowing herself to be safe in her parents’ house and clearly thinking Pete was far too old to take her seriously, was evidently taking the opportunity to practice her flirting. From Pete’s expression, she was either terrible or worryingly good. “If she takes things much further, he’ll have to make her an offer,” Patrick said to Megan, who laughed.

“Oh, I told her not to expect much,” she said airily.

“I should think not,” Patrick agreed, amused. “He’s at least ten years older than her.”

“Twelve, if the _Peerage_ is to be believed,” Megan said cheerfully.

“Of course, you looked him up,” Patrick said despairingly.

“Didn’t you?” Megan asked, surprised. “Well, I suppose you don’t have to, since you’re living with him and everything. I just wanted to know something about the man who might be my brother-in-law that _wasn’t_ by way of dormitory gossip.”

“Megan-”

“I know, I know – I won’t get my hopes up. I just want to see you happy.”

**

By the time Patrick and Megan had finished their circuit of the garden and came up to them on the terrace, Pete was starting to feel distinctly outmanoeuvred. Georgiana Hyde batted her lashes at him with not a trace of sincerity in her wide, china-blue eyes.

“Oh, Lord Highleyton,” she trilled with a slightly mocking smile, “why don’t we take a turn about the garden, just the four of us? It’s so lovely this time of year.”

Pete cast a nakedly desperate look at Patrick, who just grinned, the traitor. Miss Stump, of all people, took pity on him. “Georgie, why don’t you walk with Patrick? If my brother and I walk much longer together, we’ll fall out and that would be a pity when I see him so rarely.” She smiled at Pete.

Pete saw an opportunity and grasped it with both hands. “Miss Stump, if I may?”

She gave him a long assessing look, and he had the distinct feeling he’d jumped from the frying pan straight into the fire. Then she smiled and offered him her hand. For a moment, she looked startlingly like Patrick and it was all too easy to smile back. It was dangerous; if she took a dislike to him, there was no chance Patrick would even consider marrying him, and she’d already got him half-wrapped around her little finger. “My lord,” she said with a demure curtsey. 

Pete didn’t miss the gimlet look Patrick shot her.

“So,” he said as they strolled down the _allé_ , a little way behind Patrick and Georgiana, “how are you liking Buckinghamshire?”

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Miss Stump said. “I think I could live here quite happily. How long has Patrick been staying with you?”

Pete jumped at the abrupt turn in conversation. “Oh. I…haven’t been keeping track. He’s a very easy houseguest. It feels like we’ve been friends forever.”

“Hmm,” said Miss Stump thoughtfully and Pete tensed, wondering what she was thinking. “He speaks very highly of you.”

“Oh, er, good,” Pete said lamely. “I only hope I can live up to his high opinion,” he added, rallying. “He means a lot to me.”

“So I should hope,” she said enigmatically and Pete frowned. “Patrick should be more appreciated.”

“He’s a good friend,” Pete said carefully. “And I – want the best for him.”

She squeezed his arm a little, and smiled up at him. “Then we’re agreed,” she said easily.

Pete had no idea what they’d agreed upon. “Yes,” he said firmly, rather than betray his ignorance.

“He doesn’t always make the best of decisions,” she mused absently. “But he always wants the best for everyone, and he doesn’t always remember to factor himself in. Someone ought to break him of the habit.”

**

“Your sister is terrifying,” Pete said as they drove away from the Hydes. “But I like her.”

Patrick looked a little distracted. “Hmm? Oh. I hope she didn’t say anything awkward.”

“Oh, no,” Pete said quickly. “I like her, really. She was charming. But she frightened me.”

“Aww,” Patrick cooed mockingly. “Was the big Marquis of Highleyton scared of the little schoolgirl?”

“Well, she questioned me very thoroughly as to my intentions,” Pete retorted.

“Oh God,” Patrick dropped his head into his hands. “There’s still time to turn the carriage around. I can still go back and kill her.”

“No,” Pete said firmly, grabbing Patrick’s wrists and pulling them away from his face. “It was sweet; she’s looking out for you. Someone should. I mean, someone who’s not me.”

Patrick leant forward and kissed him, and for a full three seconds, Pete was too startled to react. Then he cupped Patrick’s face and deepened the kiss. It took an effort of actual will to draw back, and Patrick’s red, kiss-bitten mouth was a temptation all its own.

“God, the things I want to do to you,” he groaned, and took a moment to steady himself. “But,” he added, as Patrick scowled at him, “I promised your sister I’d take care of you, and I don’t think despoiling you is the way to keep my promise.”

“Please,” Patrick growled, “please don’t bring up my little sister right after you’ve kissed me.”

Pete laughed, and moved over to Patrick’s side of the carriage. “I won’t,” he promised lightly, leaning his head on Patrick’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll get this kissing business down to an art soon enough.”

**

The next week passed slowly – it only afterwards figured in Patrick’s memory as a week of long, lazy days and warm nights spent companionably in the family sitting room or music room, trading poems for music and music for kisses. The weather blessedly started to cool a little, and Pete started to talk languidly about going back to London. But there was no rush. Why would they hurry back to London and the scrutiny of the Ton when they could stay secluded at Highleyton? At Highleyton, they were free to be as affectionate as they wanted – within reason. Or at least, within Pete’s arbitrary rules. Despite his own efforts, Patrick’s virtue remained stubbornly intact.

It was only when the post arrived, about a week after they’d paid their courtesy calls, that Pete’s plans to go back to London received a significant update.

“Good God,” he said over the breakfast table, and Patrick looked up.

“Hmm?” he said, reading through his own letter from Bill. 

“Brendon’s in London,” Pete said, reading the letter through again. “I didn’t think he’d get here for another month, at least.”

“Who?” Patrick asked absently, still half-reading his letter.

“Brendon – my colleague. He’s going to take up the position of man-of-business here for me – I mentioned him?”

“Oh! Yes, of course,” Patrick nodded. “I didn’t know he was coming to London – I thought he’d come straight here.”

Pete snorted. “What would he do in Highleyton? No, he’s better off in town. He can keep an eye on things for me. But it does mean we’ll have to head back,” he added, his smile fading. “I can’t – I shouldn’t leave him alone for too long.”

“Is he some sort of hazard?” Patrick said, trying for humour.

“No, but it’s been a long time since he was in London; he doesn’t know anyone. And I don’t think his family will be excessively pleased to see him again,” Pete said thoughtfully. He looked pensive and not entirely happy. “Will you excuse me? I think I had better give orders for us to go back tonight.”

“Oh. Of course. Can I help?” Patrick asked, slightly bewildered.

“Only by packing,” Pete said with a slight smile. “I should probably write an Express to Greta; she’ll need to know to expect us.”

**  
Patrick didn’t see Pete for the rest of the day. He spent it alternately throwing his scattered belongings into a valise and wandering the gardens, trying to commit everything to memory: for all their talk of marriage, he had no idea how long it would be until he came back, if he ever did.

But by four o’clock, everything had been loaded into the carriage, and they’d met for a pre-journey meal. Pete was quiet and Patrick didn’t know how to break his reserve, so he didn’t try. It was only when they did a last check round the house that Pete’s mood snapped.

Patrick was half-heartedly checking his room when Pete rapped on the door.

“Are you ready?” he asked, and Patrick nodded.

“I think I’ve got everything,” he said simply.

“If you’ve forgotten anything, it can always be sent on,” Pete told him, and there was an awkward silence.

Then Pete took two long strides towards him, crowding him against the wall, fingers hard on Patrick’s hips.

“God,” he said roughly, and kissed him, biting at Patrick’s lips until Patrick moaned, sliding a leg between Patrick’s thighs, hard and fast and desperate. Patrick let his head thump back against the wall, and Pete took advantage of it to mouth at his neck, over his pulse, with just a suggestion of teeth. Patrick couldn’t help but moan again, and Pete bit down with more force than Patrick was used to. His hands were tight on Patrick’s hips, and suddenly he was too close and it was all too much.

“Stop,” he gasped out. “Pete, _stop_ -”

Pete pulled away instantly, taking a step back. “Sorry,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it, even though he was still a little wild-eyed, his clothes in almost as much disarray as Patrick’s. “I just – we won’t have this tomorrow. We go back to London, and – it’s like a dream, and we have to wake up. It won’t be real tomorrow. It’ll be like this never happened.”

Patrick reached out a hand to him, and Pete grasped onto it like a lifeline. “That doesn’t make sense,” Patrick told him, stepping forwards into Pete’s space again. “If it doesn’t feel real, tell me, and I’ll remind you.” He leant up to kiss Pete gently. “Come on, my lord,” he said quietly. “The carriage awaits.”

**

As the carriage bumped and rattled its way back to London, Pete slept and it was Patrick's turn to sit and wonder what waited for them at their destination. He'd left London as Patrick Stump, minor gentry and comfortably anonymous in Pete's ever-increasing circle of friends and acquaintances. Now he was coming back as Patrick Stump, Lord Highleyton's Intended, with all the hints, gossip, two-facedness and time in the public eye that it entailed. Just the thought of it was almost enough to send Patrick out of the carriage and running back to Highleyton. 

The carriage ran over a rut and Pete's head bumped against Patrick's shoulder. He had comandeered almost all of Patrick's side of the carriage, getting as close as possible before falling asleep and leaving Patrick cramped against the door, immobile and with Pete's hair in his mouth. Pete shifted a little, muttered something and dozed off again, snoring lightly into Patrick's shoulder. Patrick grinned, looking out of the window at the pitch black outside; they had to be almost to London by now. He sighed and shut his eyes. More to his own surprise than anyone else's, he fell asleep.

He woke to Pete shaking him and the sound of the carriage door being flung open. "What?" he said blearily. "We're here already?"

"We are. With a reception committee and everything. Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," Pete pressed a feather-light kiss to the corner of Patrick's mouth. "Your public awaits."

Patrick pulled a face, exhausted and yet reluctantly charmed. "Just get me somewhere I can sleep."

"You didn't sleep on the way here?" Pete asked, jumping down. He didn't offer Patrick a hand, which was just was well as Patrick might have punched him.

"No. Someone fell asleep on me and snored halfway to London," Patrick said pointedly and Pete grinned. "Somehow I couldn't drop off."

"You won't have that problem tonight," Pete told him as he clambered down to the ground. "You'll have a whole bed, all to yourself."

A new thought struck Patrick and he hovered awkwardly. "Did you want me to go home tonight?" he said, quietly so the servants wouldn't hear.

Pete threw him a quizzical look over his shoulder. "I'm not throwing you out, Stump," he said, walking towards the door.

Patrick smiled and followed.

The front door was open, warm candlelight flooding out into the night. Greta was silhouetted dramatically against the light, looking none too pleased. "My lord," she said, dropping what might have been called a curtsey in a less irritated woman. "Welcome home. And may I say how gracious it was of you to give us a whole half day's warning before you returned?"

Pete laughed and swept her up into a hug, kissing her soundly on the cheek. "Did you miss me?"

"No."

"Of course you did. Without your lord and master, I bet you were like lost little lambs."

"We got the drawing room clean for the first time in six months," retorted Greta, "I'd have been happy if you'd stayed at Highleyton the whole summer. But no, you turn up in the middle of the night. Like a bad penny." Her eyes fell on Patrick, who took a slightly nervous step back. "Mr Stump," she smiled at him. "Congratulations! You survived a trip to Highleyton with none but my lord for company. However did you manage not to stab him with a corkscrew?"

"Hey," Pete said mildly, as they were chivvied over the threshold and the door shut behind them. 

Patrick laughed. "Would you believe it never occurred to me? He must have been drugging my food."

Greta nodded. "That's the only sane explanation. Well," she said sternly, eyeing the two of them. "Having got me up in the middle of the night, I expect you want feeding as well?"

“No,” Pete said thoughtfully, glancing at Patrick, who nodded. “Not for me, at any rate. I just want to sleep.”

“Well, we’ve made you some posset, so you’ll drink that,” Greta said firmly. “You both look exhausted. You’re lucky I aired the sheets regularly, you ungrateful pair. Come on, to bed with you.”

They were ushered upstairs, yawning, for some posset and bed. At the left turn down the corridor to Pete’s room, they paused for a second, grinning tiredly at each other.

“Do you want me to…?” Patrick asked, taking a hesitant step forward, but Pete shook his head, smiling.

“London rules, Mr Stump. Here, you’re as pure as driven snow and I’m too dumbstruck with love to even think about laying a finger on you.”

Patrick pulled a face. “Is it too early to go back to Highleyton so we can remedy that?” he murmured, watching as Pete shivered and then stepped backwards, putting some space between them.

“I’ve created a monster,” he said ruefully.

Patrick snorted. “You’ve created nothing. And if I’m not even getting a kiss out of this, I’m going to bed.”

“Come here,” Pete said, and reached out to grab him, kissing him once, very chastely, before pushing him gently away. “Off with you, Mr Stump. To bed. Go on – I’ll see you in the morning.”

Patrick sighed and turned down to his room, listening for the sound of Pete’s door clicking shut.

Back in his own room, he sat on the crisp sheets of his bed and looked around. It was odd to think of this house as familiar, as home almost, and still odder to think he’d be leaving it soon.

At least Joe would be pleased.

A servant arrived with the posset and left again. Alone, Patrick toed off his shoes and sat on the bed fully-dressed, sipping his posset. He wondered idly what correspondence he and Pete would have to go through the next morning, then wondered whether that was even his responsibility any more. What did courtship even entail? It wasn’t as though he had any basis of comparison. And how far was Pete intending to take it? Patrick might not be a suitable prospect for the Marquis of Highleyton, but he didn’t want their courtship to last for years while Pete tried to convince the Ton.

He rummaged through his valise for his nightshirt and clambered under the covers; the weather had cooled in London as well, and bright moonlight streamed through the open curtains into the room. Between the light and the questions weighing on Patrick’s mind, it would be a miracle if he ever got to sleep.

Yet somehow, as soon as his head it the pillow, he was asleep.

**

“No,” he said flatly the next morning while Pete looked at him pleadingly.

“Just once more-”

“ _No_. You hate these parties. _I_ hate these parties – does _anyone_ like these parties? Mrs Lascombe must, as she keeps giving them. I’m not going.” He sat back firmly in his chair, hoping he looked sufficiently forbidding.

Pete pushed the invitation across the breakfast table. “We agreed before we went to Highleyton,” he said coaxingly. “And this is the last time. I promise. I just want to show you off!”

“You’re not showing me off,” Patrick said repressively. “I’m not a pony and you can’t put me through my paces.”

Pete grinned. “Not even for sugar lumps?” Patrick glared at him and he laughed. “No, you’re right; I should probably start going to these things by myself. At least once I’m married she’ll stop inviting me. And if I don’t go, she’ll be round to harangue me for news about the estate and how I’m taking care of it. I might as well get a glass of wine out of it.”

Patrick sighed, remembering how mobbed Pete was at those parties, and feeling guilty. “No, I’ll come,” he said grudgingly. “But this is the _last time_.”

Pete beamed at him. “Excellent! That’s eight pm on Thursday, so you’ll have lots of time to prepare yourself. And I promise I won’t make you trot in a circle.

Patrick smiled reluctantly, well-aware he’d been played. “Shut up. I’ve agreed to go and we are never mentioning it again. So, uh, I wanted to ask,” Pete looked up at him questioningly, and Patrick flushed. There was no way to ask this without sounding pathetic. “I’ll – I need to go home, don’t I?”

Pete frowned. “We’re not back to this, are we?” he said, slowly. “Why would I send you back home?”

“Because you’ve been talking for weeks about ‘wanting to do this properly’, and you can’t do it properly if I’m living with you. London’s going to realise what you’re up to soon enough, and then there’ll be all sorts of rumours if I’m still staying in your house.”

Pete considered it. “Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, I suppose you’d better go back to yours.” He pouted a little. “But I don’t like it.”

“Right, so – should – would it be best to move my things? I sent Joe back this morning to make sure the house hadn’t burnt down in our absence. Our housekeeper’s staying with her sister.”

Pete gave him a sharp look. “Who’s going to feed you if your housekeeper’s away? And don’t say Mr Trohman.”

Patrick laughed. “No; Joe wouldn’t attempt to cook if you paid him. And Mrs Sowerby’s not gon far – she’s with her sister down in St Catherine’s.”

“Well, you can’t go back today. Not until I’m sure you’re going to be looked after. And for the rest of it,” Pete shrugged. “I’m a feckless idler, Patrick. Anytime you want to go, I’ll help. Tomorrow, maybe?”

Patrick nodded. He couldn’t help feeling a little sad – it felt horribly like an ending. He hoped it didn’t show on his face. “It’ll be strange, being back home. Not nearly as comfortable for one thing.” He shivered theatrically, hoping to make Pete laugh.

Pete just smiled, a little sadly. “It’ll be strange to have you gone. I don’t think I’ll like it when you’re not here.”

Patrick knew how he felt. All comforts aside, it would be odd not to be living with Pete – after just three months, Pete had somehow become indispensable, and the idea that they wouldn’t be living together for some months yet was an uncomfortable one. “Well, I haven’t gone yet,” he said, rather than dwell on it, and Pete nodded.

“Exactly,” he said briskly. “So, how shall we spend the day?”

“Well,” Patrick said slowly, “I should probably see about packing up my things. I’ll have to keep hold of the trunk you leant me, but-”

“It’ll make its way back to me eventually,” Pete said, with a sly smile. “I’m afraid I really should meet with Brendon sometime today, before he does something dreadful like burn down London, but apart from that, the day is our own. I’ll write to Brendon and ask him to meet me at my club this afternoon; what shall we do this morning?”

Patrick considered it. “D’you know, I don’t have the slightest idea?” he said, a little surprised. “If we were at Highleyton-”

“If we were at Highleyton, I’d have a full-time job protecting my virtue,” Pete told him sanctimoniously. “And that’s no longer an option. There’s the Museum, of course, or perhaps the Royal Academy, but I don’t know that I really want to gadding about town. Unless you’d fancy it, of course?”

Patrick made a token effort to consider it. “No,” he said finally. “I don’t think so. Not after a journey yesterday; I’m tired and I don’t want to have to deal with people today. Let’s just – stay in.”

Pete gave him a very knowing look, but acquiesced so easily that Patrick was almost convinced he’d been played. “Alright,” he agreed. “I’ll write to Brendon after breakfast, then we’ll hole ourselves up in the drawing room and eschew the world for a little while longer. How does that sound?”

Patrick smiled at him over the breakfast things. “That sounds perfect,” he said.

**

It was a wrench, leaving the next day. Patrick walked back up the steps to his house in Grosvenor Square, valise in hand. He felt a little shaken, as though he’d been living in a dream-world for the last three months and was only just coming back to reality. 

He had to hammer on the door a couple of times before Joe opened it, looking harassed. “Yes? Oh, it’s you. You should have gone round the back, it’s open. Or are you too good now for the tradesman’s entrance?” He grinned when Patrick elbowed him and walked back into the hallway, holding the door open behind him. “Escape while you can,” he advised. “Mrs Sowerby’s back, and she’s dusting everything she can get her hands on.”

“Even you?”

Joe shot him a darkling look. “Where’s his lordship?”

“He’s not coming until tonight. He’s got business to attend to, now his agent’s back. But he’ll be picking me up tonight.”

“Why?” Joe said suspiciously. “Oh, God, it’s not another party, is it? Could you _try_ and remember that I have to dress you? I liked it so much better when you were a recluse.”

“Technically, you don’t _have_ to dress me,” Patrick said, putting his valise down on the floor. “I can dress myself.”

“Yes, I do, and no, you can’t. It’s form, and you’re Family. And you can’t lie, or it’d be safe to let you do what you wanted.” He sighed. “It’s probably for the best his insufferable lordship’s not here.” Patrick thought about pointing out that Joe might have to get used to Pete quite quickly, then decided to pick his battles. “Mrs Sowerby would probably dust him, too. She wants to see you, by the way. I’ll take that up to your room.”

He grabbed Patrick’s valise and headed off upstairs. Alone, Patrick stared around the hallway; it was totally empty – no rugs, no ornaments, no pictures apart from a grimacing ancestor he hadn’t been able to sell. Tentatively, he pushed open the door to the drawing room. It was empty, apart from two chairs and a bridge table, still scattered with the pamphlets Patrick had been writing when he left. There were no tapers, just the remains of two squat little candles in saucers, the wax carefully saved and reused. Patrick sighed and tiptoed out, shutting the door behind him.

How had they lived like that? How had Patrick managed to convince himself that they were fine, that he could cope? How was that living? It was as though living with Pete had woken him up – he couldn’t live like this any longer, none of them could. And he certainly wouldn’t let Megan live here, like this.

“Home sweet home?” Joe was coming down the stairs, grinning, and Patrick noted how much healthier he looked. For surely as Patrick had starved, Joe had too.

“Something like that,” Patrick agreed. “Almost makes you want to go back to Pete’s, doesn’t it?”

“Almost. But not quite. Come on,” Joe looped an arm around Patrick’s neck and dragged him towards the kitchen stairs. “Mrs Sowerby wants to mother you.”

Patrick weathered the storm his housekeeper wrung over his head (what had he been thinking, disappearing like that? Gallivanting around the country, what would his mother say? His clothes were quite beyond the pale, it was nice to see him looking so well, and when was she going to meet this young man?) while Joe looked smugly on. Eventually, he was sent away with a piece of bread and butter, “for a treat”. Looking down at it, Patrick remembered when butter had been a treat.

He spent the rest of the day unpacking and wandering about the house in something of a daze. Now that he realised how bizarre and untenable his situation had been, he couldn’t stop seeing it. His footsteps echoed down the corridors because there were no rugs anymore; there were lighter patches on the walls where pictures had hung; the larder was all-but empty save for the generosity of Mrs Sowerby’s sister. Patrick reflected grimly that Pete had better marry him soon, before Joe was reduced to hunting pigeons again.

His own room was the barest – trunk, wash-stand and bed, with the one, worn set of sheets – but most heart-breaking of all was the empty spot where his piano used to be. 

Thank God for Pete, he thought, with relief. If it hadn’t been for Pete, he’d still be living hand-to-mouth, desperately trying to think up ways to keep them afloat.

**

“So, are you going to tell me about Highleyton?” Joe asked, as they waited in the hallway for Pete that night. 

“Nothing happened at Highleyton!” Patrick said automatically.

Joe squinted at him. “I just meant the scenery and if you ate off gold plate every night, and how many portraits of his lordship there were. Does he have an entire room dedicated to portraits of himself? Tell me he does. Lie to me if you have to.” Patrick opened his mouth and Joe forestalled him. “ _But_ , you distracted me. What happened at Highleyton?” There was a beat of silence; Patrick could feel his face turning read. “Oh god. He had you, didn’t he? What happened to all those speeches about ‘no, Joe, I am the most valuable thing we have. No, Joe, my purity is our only sellable asset. No, Joe, I will throw myself upon his mercy, and then die, tainted, in a gutter.”

“Joe-”

“ _No, Joe_ , I cannot bear you to look at me, covered in his fingerprints! I am off to become a gentleman of pleasure and develop consumption.” Joe flung out his arms theatrically, and in the excitement of the moment, they both missed the sound of the door opening.

“Mr Trohman, how good to see you again,” Pete said mildly from behind him, grinning at a very red Patrick over his shoulder.

To Joe’s credit, his expression barely flickered. “My lord,” he said, just bowing enough to be polite.

“Mr Stump has yet to develop consumption, I’m happy to say.”

Joe nodded. “If he does, you’ll have to look after him, my lord. He’s a horrible invalid.”

“It would be my duty,” Pete agreed gravely. “As it would be my fingerprints that apparently led to his decline.”

Patrick glared at them impartially. “You’re not allowed to be friends,” he said firmly. “I absolutely forbid it.”

Pete grinned at him. “We’re just bonding over your abject humiliation,” he said fondly.

“That’s what distresses me. Joe, we have tea, right?”

But Pete was already shaking his head. “No time – we’re already late as it is. I just wanted to come in to see your house.” He was looking around the hallway, clearly seeing more than Patrick wanted him to.

“Joe, I’ll see you later, alright?” he said swiftly. “Pete, shall we…?”

“Yes, let’s,” Pete said absently, still frowning. Patrick grimaced to himself. If this was how Pete responded to the hall, it was probably for the best that he couldn’t see Patrick’s bedroom. That led to an entirely new train of thought, and he forcibly dragged Pete out of the house before he could commit an indiscretion.

**

Pete was silent when they got into the carriage, and it was fully ten minutes before he said anything. When he eventually broke the silence, it was for light pleasantries that were belied by the frown in his eyes, and Patrick eventually lost patience with it.

“What is it?” he demanded. “No, I’m not interested in hearing about the latest scandal Bill and Gabe have got themselves into, even if it _does_ involve another of your friends. You look as though you’re trying to solve a riddle and hold a conversation at the same time.”

Pete flushed guiltily, and Patrick felt a brief surge of triumph – brief, because when Pete spoke, it washed away any last clinging hope that Pete might not really have noticed the shortcomings of Patrick’s house. “I didn’t realise things were as bad as that,” he said quietly. “I mean – well. You told me yourself that you were in difficulties, and I saw what you looked like when you first arrived,” Patrick flushed at that, “but I never thought – why didn’t you sell the house? Move somewhere smaller?”

Patrick sighed. It was difficult to explain to anyone, really – it wasn’t as though Joe had never suggested it, after all, or that Patrick had never thought of it. “Oh, a score of reasons,” he said tiredly. “I’d already sold Westcote – which was probably a poor move, in truth, but I didn’t know what else to do. And that made this house the last link to my family. And it’s a good address, and apart from that we only really have our name to trade on – Megan is going to need all the help she can get. A house in a good part of Town, even a shabby one, is better than nothing. And by the time I realised we’d probably have to sell it, it was getting so run-down, I wouldn’t have made a good price on it.”

Pete reached out a hand, and grasped Patrick’s. “I’m so sorry,” he said helplessly. “It must have been miserable.”

Patrick squeezed back, but smiled. “D’you know, while I was in the middle of it, I didn’t even notice? I mean, things only got worse gradually, so it didn’t seem so bad to start with – and then when you start living from day to day, you don’t really think of the bigger picture. It’s all about how to get through each day as it comes.”

“Well, hopefully you won’t need to do that again,” Pete said, smiling back, though it still looked a little forced.

For a moment, Patrick wanted to kiss him so much he had to clench his fists against the urge. After all, while they were in a carriage, it still had glass windows, and turning up at Mrs Lascombe’s looking kiss-drunk would be the death-knell for his sickening reputation. So instead, he smiled, and shook his head; the other option was kiss Pete, or get his first serious offer of marriage in a barouche, and neither sounded like an especially good plan.

In any case, before they could say anything, the carriage pulled to a halt with a clatter, and the door was swung open ceremoniously by a waiting footman. Pete sighed, pulled on his hat, and climbed out, turning to wait for Patrick, and offering him his arm, a wry tilt to his lips that called an answering grin from Patrick as he very decorously laid his hand on Pete’s elbow.

“Into battle again, beloved?” Pete said, _sotto voce_ , and Patrick took a theatrically deep breath.

“Another casual stroll into the valley of death,” he agreed, and they went up to the door arm-in-arm.

**

The moment they entered the drawing room, Mrs Lascombe was on them, smiling malevolently at Pete and offering him her hand with a frankly unnerving gleam in her eyes.

“Peter, how lovely,” she said, a wealth of meaning in each syllable, watching as Pete bowed over her hand. “I had _no idea_ you would be here. After all, you’ve barely shaken the country dust from your shoes. How was Highleyton? None of us had _any idea you’d be leaving Town_.”

Patrick grinned a little to himself. Clearly, Pete’s sudden decision to go out into the country hadn’t found favour with Mrs Lascombe, and every dire prediction Pete had ever made about her was about to come true. 

Well, it was nice to see people get their just deserts.

But before he could enjoy watching Pete squirm, Mrs Lascombe turned to him, a distressingly kind look in her eyes. “Mr Stump, I’m so glad you could come. How did you find Highleyton? I can only hope Peter behaved appropriately.”

Patrick hoped against hope that he wasn’t blushing, and carefully didn’t look at Pete. “Thank you, ma’am – it was delightful.” He avoided even so much as catching a glimpse of Pete as he added, “and Pete was an excellent host.”

Her eyes flickered between the two of them, and her lips pursed for a moment, then she nodded with a smile of glittering sweetness. “How charming. Now, you must let me introduce you to Mr Skeffington – Lord Leighbrook’s son, you know. Peter, you must know everyone by now.”

Pete cast Patrick a glance brimful of unholy amusement as Patrick was forcibly led away, and in that moment, Patrick hated him.

Mr Skeffington turned out to be a good-natured young man cursed with a terrible stammer and, possibly consequentially, dreadful shyness. He was perfectly ready to talk about anything Patrick wanted to talk about, and was touchingly deferential to all of Patrick’s opinions, but he wasn’t precisely a scintillating conversationalist; it was a relief when the poor man dragged another unfortunate into their conversation. Mr Dun was far easier to talk to than Mr Skeffington, but he seemed to be in a retiring mood, so it was with great relief that Patrick made his excuses to both of them and went to find himself some punch and also possibly Pete.

Finding Pete would be easy, he thought, as he made his way through the crowd - all he’d have to do was find out where the matrons were most thickly crowded, and go from there – so he helped himself to punch first. For a few moments, he eyed the room, then, before he could set off in search of Pete, Pete found him, followed by one of the tallest men Patrick had ever seen, apart from Victoria’s betrothed.

“Patrick!” Pete hailed him with obvious relief. “I thought I’d lost you for good. Trick, this is Mr Travis McCoy. Travis, this is Mr Patrick Stump. I thought you two should know each other – you’re both absolutely music-mad. Also, if I’m talking to you two, I’m not talking to Lady Somebody-or-Other or Lord Some-Such-Name about their delightful children who I absolutely _have_ to meet.”

Mr McCoy held out a hand and shook Patrick’s, all the while wearing an expression of languid amusement. “He was never this bad in India,” he said easily. “I think London’s sent him mad.”

“It does that to the best of us,” Patrick agreed.

“And I am definitely not the best of anyone,” Pete said cheerfully.

“So,” Patrick said, ignoring Pete with the ease of long-born practice, “you knew Pete in India, then?”

“Yes,” Mr McCoy said simply. “I met him about a year ago; Brendon and I travelled back together.”

“I don’t think I know-?”

“Brendon, my business manager,” Pete said. “I’ve mentioned him, but you’ve not met him yet. I think he’s here somewhere-”

With that, he disappeared off into the crowd.

Patrick watched him go, surprised, then turned back to Mr McCoy. “Did he do _that_ in India? You know, jump from one thought to the next without stopping to finish the first one?”

Mr McCoy grinned. “I think he’s done that all his life,” he said, and shrugged philosophically. “Who’m I to comment on the foibles of my fellow man?”

There was no answer to that but a pleasant nod, so Patrick nodded pleasantly. “What took you to India, then, Mr McCoy?” he asked. “Business, banishment or boredom?”

“A little bit of business, a little bit of boredom,” Mr McCoy admitted freely. “And please – call me Travis. Everyone does. No, I’m a music historian, by trade; I wanted to research the musical traditions of the subcontinent, but that proved to be a little over-ambitious. I settled on the music in the West Bengali region-” he broke off, and glanced at Patrick, apparently rather embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he said carefully. “I tend to get rather carried away, and I’m told it can be a little boring to listen to. I only hope people don’t feel that way when I publish my book.”

Patrick frowned. “Rubbish,” he said robustly. “It sounds fascinating. Tell me more – what sort of music is there? Pete mentioned trying to learn one of the instruments out there, but he couldn’t tell me all that much about the music itself.”

Travis spoke for nearly half an hour, and they were just discussing whether – from Travis’ descriptions – a _dotar_ was more like a mandolin or a guitar, when Pete reappeared.

“I knew you two would get on,” he said proudly. “Patrick, did you know Bill and Gabe are here?”

Patrick offered Travis an apologetic smile, and turned to Pete. “Bill and Gabe?” he said, surprised. “Here? What on earth for?”

“They mentioned something about wanting to watch a cattle-market,” Travis said, mildly apologetic but unconcerned. “Whatever that might mean.”

“That sounds like those two,” Patrick said, amused. “If Nero fiddled while Rome burned, they’d have been dancing along.”

Pete grinned. “And they’re here to face the music now.” He leant forwards conspiratorially. “If I’m honest, I think they came to see us. Bill had a look in his eyes that said he wouldn’t be happy without juicy gossip.”

“Well, he won’t get that from me,” Patrick said crisply. “Because there isn’t any!” he added quickly, aware of Mr McCoy’s interested eyes.

Pete just laughed, the bastard. “Try telling Bill that,” he said gleefully. “He’s got a nose like a bloodhound for scandal and intrigue, you’ll have to fend him off with a stick.”

“Won’t you be a gentleman and help?” a new voice asked, and Patrick eyed the newcomer as Pete turned to greet him with an expression of unaffected delight. Short, compact and a suggestion of barely-suppressed manic energy – that was the impression he got before Pete was introducing him to the stranger and he had to pay attention to the conversation again.

“Patrick, this is Brendon Urie – Brendon, Patrick Stump,” he said perfunctorily, and beamed when Brendon held out his hand.

“So you’re the famous Mr Stump,” he said, and Patrick shook the offered hand, feeling oddly wrong-footed.

“Well,” he said carefully. “I’m Patrick. It’s nice to meet you?”

Brendon grinned suddenly. “It is, isn’t it?” he agreed. “Only imagine how much better it is to _be_ me.”

Travis sighed. “Before you ask,” he said, infinitely long-suffering, “Yes – he really is always like this. Brendon, I thought we had an agreement?”

“I broke it,” Brendon said, quite unashamed. “Do you know how long it’s been since I had syllabub? Months, at least. You couldn’t expect me to resist.”

“I lived in hope,” Travis said. “You’ll have to ignore everything my friend says tonight, Mr Stump,” he added, turning back to Patrick. He looked put-upon, but there was a wicked amusement in his eyes. “Sugar has an unfortunate effect on him, and he’ll be unbearable until it wears off.”

“Please,” Patrick said, unsure how to respond to that, watching their by-play, and Pete’s reactions, and feeling like an outsider for the first time in months, “call me Patrick. So, how did you all meet?”

“Well,” Brendon said, considering it. “I suppose it all started when I ran away from home.”

“He asked how we met,” Travis interrupted. “Not for a bedtime story, B.”

Brendon ignored him. “My family is a large one, and by the time they got to me, the money was running out, and marriage was the only option,” he explained, and Patrick nodded – he knew about that only too well. But Brendon looked a little too curious on the subject of Patrick’s ready understanding, so he waved him on.

“And?” he said, when Brendon didn’t seem about to take the hint.

“I think I decided marriage wasn’t for me round about the time when a suitor described me as a ‘lad with spirit’,” Brendon told Patrick, to general laughter. 

“In fairness,” Travis said calmly, “they weren’t wrong.”

Brendon flashed him a sudden grin. “I never said they were _wrong_ ,” he objected. “I just said I didn’t like it. So I ran away.”

Patrick smiled. "I did that a couple of times. How long did you last?"

Brendon raised an eyebrow. “Well, I only just got back, so…?”

Patrick flushed, embarrassed. He really should have worked that one out. “Right,” he said. “Well, I didn't do that. You ran away to _India_?”

“Mm,” Brendon nodded. “Stole twenty pounds from my father and bartered my way onto a ship.”

“I definitely never ran away to India,” Patrick said, a little amazed at Brendon’s daring. Then again, he supposed, it depended on your family – Patrick had certainly been introduced to men and women he’d never have wanted to marry, but his parents would never have made him. He had no idea what Brendon’s parents were like; perhaps India had been the only real option.

Pete grinned, sidling over to Patrick and slinging an arm over his shoulders, oblivious to the hordes of Society gossips ready and waiting to make piecemeal of their every interaction. “I should hope not,” he said fondly. “You burn just thinking about the sun.”

Brendon was watching them closely, and Patrick flushed again. “It’s true,” he told Brendon and Travis, hoping to distract them. “Sometimes all I have to do is imagine a nice hot day and my skin starts blistering. So! How did you meet Pete?”

Brendon smiled, but he still looked rather thoughtful as he watched them. “He didn't tell you? It's a favourite story of his.”

“He hasn’t told it to me yet,” Patrick said, then wondered why not.

“I was a tumbler at the court of the local maharaja,” Brendon said casually, as though running away from home and becoming an acrobat at a foreign court was completely normal. “I'd been there about a year – spending most of it learning how to tumble, which, let me tell you, is harder than it looks – but I'm terrible with languages, so I wasn't making many friends. Heard someone speaking English and almost threw myself weeping at their feet. Luckily it was Pete and, well. He's used to high drama.”

Patrick consciously closed his mouth. “Oh,” he said blankly, then paused, eyeing Brendon carefully before looking up at Travis. “Is that true?” he asked him, and Brendon started to laugh. 

“Got your measure, B,” Travis said, imperturbable, still wearing that same slight smile. “And I don’t know whether it’s true or not, but if it’s a lie, at least they’re consistent. They told me the same story.”

Pete was grinning. “Hand to God, it’s true,” he said. “I turn up at court to make my bow to the Maharaja, and there’s Brendon trying to do a backflip and not go straight into the dessert table. When he found out I was English, he was so pathetically grateful to have someone to talk to, he followed me home like a lost puppy.” He sighed, and removed his arm from Patrick’s shoulders, only to link arms with him. “And I’ve never yet got rid of him.” Brendon responded with an inappropriate gesture that made Patrick cough with laughter, and it was only a lucky quirk of timing that prevented him from spraying wine all over one of the immaculate footmen.

“How did you get into business?” he asked quickly, to cover his gaff.

Brendon shrugged, smiling as he accepted another glass of wine from the now-wary footman. “I have something of a head for figures. Pete's work interested me and, more importantly, I was less interested in making a living off backflips. I agreed to join him for a frankly pitiful sum of money and we went from there.”

“You must have known him a while?” Patrick asked.

“Mm, a few years,” Brendon nodded. “Pete took a little time to get his feet under him in India, you see. But he could speak the language, and I couldn't, and I knew the customs, and he didn't, so it all worked out pretty well, in the end." He grinned. "He did the travelling, though. You know, to invest in the silk, and source the factories to process it. I just dealt with the figures, safely back in Delhi.” He sighed, looking a little wistful. “Sometimes I wish I'd travelled more. But I'm a city boy and jungles frighten me. I suppose there's always time.”

“You're not going to stay in London?”

Brendon shrugged again. “I don’t know,” he said simply. “I mean, at the moment, I’m working for Pete – technically, I’m firmly below the salt now, you know,” he added with a grin. “I shouldn’t even be invited to these parties, but Mrs Lascombe and my father think I can be rehabilitated into decent behaviour and a successful marriage. If they look like they might succeed, all bets are off. But I’m settled here for the moment.”

“Damn right you are,” Pete said firmly. “I’ve paid you three months’ salary.”

Brendon grinned. “I blew it all on the gaming tables,” he said sweetly, and Patrick just knew he was looking guilty when Brendon’s eyes drifted back to him thoughtfully. “Anyway, Mr Stump – sorry, Patrick,” he amended, when Patrick opened his mouth. “Pete tells me you’re a musician?”

Patrick flushed. “I'm not. Well, I play the piano and sing a bit, but I'm not what you'd call a musician. Not like Mr McCoy-“

“Oh, we're all complete failures in comparison with Travie,” Brendon said airily, digging a fond elbow into Travis’ ribs. Travis accepted it with put-upon equanimity. “But no. Seriously. Pete spent all of our last meeting waxing lyrical about how brilliant you are, so I insist. Who have I missed out on?”

Brendon couldn’t have hit upon a better conversational gambit – within minutes, the three of them were well into a discussion on the merits of various modern composers, and Travis was holding forth on Clementi’s melodic line when Pete stiffened at Patrick’s side.

“Oh God,” he muttered, “brace yourselves. Brendon, no one will judge you if you want to make yourself scarce.”

“What?” Brendon began, and then Mrs Lascombe had swept down on them and was beaming at the group with disturbing glee.

“Brendon, dear,” she said in honeyed tones, and Brendon actually flinched a little. “I’m so pleased you and Mr Stump are getting on so well. Have you met before?”

“No, ma’am,” Patrick said, when it became apparent that Brendon – someone he already suspected was very rarely lost for words – couldn’t answer her. “Pete – Lord Highleyton just introduced us.”

“How good of him,” she said blandly. “Though it was very bad of you to escape poor Mr Skeffington like that, Mr Stump. He’s been quite cast down about it.”

Patrick suppressed a niggling feeling of guilt. “I was being introduced to Mr McCoy,” he said weakly, and she eyed Travis, then smiled brightly.

“How lovely. Perhaps you might like to take part in a little dancing, Mr McCoy?” she asked, and Travis smiled back, completely unruffled by her sudden attack.

“I’m afraid I’ve got no sense of rhythm, ma’am,” he said easily, and Brendon had to turn a laugh into a hacking cough while Mrs Lascombe eyed him disapprovingly.

“You should have that cough seen to,” she told him firmly. “Mr McCoy, I’m sure Mr Stump could lead you through-”

The idea of Patrick, fully a foot shorter than Travis, leading him in a dance was so ridiculous that Patrick had to stare very hard down at his shoes so he wouldn’t end up joining Brendon in Mrs Lascombe’s bad books. Thankfully – and surprisingly – Pete came to his rescue, offering Mrs Lascombe a smile of such innocence that Patrick knew he was about to tell the most appalling lie.

“I’m afraid Mr Stump promised me the first dance, if there was to be any dancing,” he lied sweetly. “In the carriage, on the way here.”

Mrs Lascombe eyed them thoughtfully. “I’m glad to see you were prepared, for once in your life, Peter,” she said slowly. “Do you know, I don’t think you’ve ever told me how you two met?”

It was such a blatant manoeuvre that Patrick felt oddly ruffled by it, and he smiled at Mrs Lascombe sweetly. “He won me in a game of cards, ma’am,” he told her, and she paused for a moment, eyes widening, then, clearly deciding it was a joke, she laughed, reaching out to thwap him with her fan.

“Oh, Mr Stump,” she said gaily, “you shouldn’t tease me. Peter, perhaps you’ll be more forthcoming?”

Pete was rigid with disbelief at Patrick’s side, but he managed a passable smile. “It’s not so very far from the truth, ma’am,” he said. “We met over a game of cards, got talking, and decided to be firm friends.” Patrick was uncomfortably aware of Brendon and Travis watching them both, and hoped that Pete could sell the lie more convincingly than he’d have managed. “I was only newly back in London, and he took me around until I got my feet under me again.”

There was a disturbingly assessing look in her eyes as she watched them, and Patrick suddenly realised that he was still all-but holding Pete’s hand. For a moment, he was agonised by indecision – stepping away would draw attention to it, staying put was almost worse – before Mrs Lascombe made the decision for him. “How sweet,” she said, every syllable heavy with doubt. “Peter, why don’t you come and meet my goddaughter? She’s a sweet girl, and she could do with a little more practice in society. Come along, now.” She paused, and gave Patrick a long, direct look, then smiled very suddenly. “I’ll return him to you in one piece,” she said, apparently to the whole group, but her eyes were still on Patrick. “Peter.”

“I come, greymalkin,” Pete muttered under his breath, and let himself be towed away again.

Patrick turned back to Brendon and Travis. “It’s like being smothered by a silk cushion,” he said simply, and Brendon shuddered theatrically.

“She used to come and visit my parents regularly,” he told them. “Back when Mr Lascombe, of sainted memory, was still alive. Between the three of us, the only thing he ever did that she approved of was die.” He paused, then added fairly, “not that I can blame her. He was fairly vile.”

“D’you know, I can’t imagine her as anything other than a widow?” Patrick said. “I mean, I assumed there had to have been a Mr Lascombe at some point, but I never really imagined her as a wife.”

“Who’s never been a wife?” someone demanded over Patrick’s shoulder, and for one horrible moment, he thought it was Mrs Lascombe. Then common sense reasserted itself as long spindly arms wound themselves around his neck and he realised it could only be Bill. “Angel mine,” Bill said lazily, untangling himself, and leaving one arm dangling around Patrick’s shoulders, “did you miss me?”

“I positively pined,” Patrick told him quellingly. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to watch all the hopeless unmarrieds sing for their supper,” Bill told him, and leered expertly at Travis. “Like you, Patrick. Last time you were here, I heard you sang – I’d love to hear a repeat performance.” His grin was positively wicked.

“I played the piano,” Patrick said repressively. “And if you so much as breathe those words in the vicinity of Mrs Lascombe, so help me God, I will destroy you.”

“Threatening my beloved?” Came a voice from behind him.

“Always,” Patrick said, without turning round. “Can’t you control him?”

“Why would I want to control him?” Gabe asked fondly. “I like it when he molests other people. It causes such wonderful gossip.”

“And we all know how you love gossip,” Bill said, and Gabe pulled a face at him.

“I like it when it’s about you,” he said.

“Sweet-talker,” Bill said, amused. “You can go and fetch me a drink.”

“Right away, darling,” Gabe said outrageously. “Shall I fetch the bottle?”

“Only if it’s champagne.”

“I run to obey your slightest whim,” Gabe said, with a mocking bow. “I’ll take Mr McCoy with me.”

Bill pouted. “Do you have to? I like looking at Mr McCoy. He’s such a decorative acquisition.”

“Addition,” Gabe said firmly. “Addition, Billy darling. He’s not an acquisition.” He smiled charmingly at Travis, as though Travis couldn’t hear them. Travis, to his credit, was looking amused.

“Yet,” Bill said, very quietly, as they left.

“You know,” Patrick said, looking askance at Bill, “sometimes I think I should be more frightened of you than I am.”

Bill smiled sweetly down at him. “You should definitely be more frightened of us than you are. Now, what’s the Highleyton gossip? I want to hear everything.”

**

“Are you sure it was really alright to let Mr McCoy leave with Bill and Gabe?” Patrick asked worriedly, in the carriage on the way back to his house.

“Oh yes,” Pete said lazily, leaning back and watching Patrick in the lamplit gloom, a small smile on his face. “He’s a big lad. He can take care of himself.”

“There are two of them, and only one of him. And one of them is Bill.”

“He’s made of stern stuff, Travie,” Pete said fondly. “He’ll have Bill wrapped around his little finger by morning. He might actually survive the Felsons.”

“Then perhaps we should be worrying about whether the Felsons will survive Mr McCoy, if he’s so formidable.”

Pete laughed. “Bill, leave Gabe? Or Gabe leave Bill? I can’t see that happening in a hundred years, can you?”

“I was actually thinking he might be the death of them,” Patrick said, and grinned when Pete laughed. It was just as well the carriage ground to a halt at that moment, or else he might have given in and kissed Pete. It was harder and harder to remember that they were in London now, and they couldn’t fall back into the easy intimacy of Highleyton.

He went to hop out, and Pete caught his hand. “Wait, I’ll see you to your door,” he said quickly, and Patrick looked at him, amused.

“You don’t have to,” he said fondly. “The door is right there. I think I’ll probably make it.”

“I want to,” Pete said, and grinned at his own folly. “You’re turning me into a sap, Mr Stump.”

“Don’t blame me – you were a sap long before I met you.” On impulse, he leant forwards and pressed a quick kiss to Pete’s lips. “But I suppose I can deal with it.”

Pete saw him into the house, then caught his hand before he went. “By the way,” he said, so casually that he had to have rehearsed it, “Brendon brought me over a load of furniture from India, and Brunswick Square is looking rather crowded. Could you take some of the old furniture off my hands? It wouldn’t be forever, only until I could find somewhere for it, or sell it on.”

Patrick frowned at him. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, then gave in at the look of naked pleading Pete gave him. “Fine, fine. Send it round tomorrow and I’ll find somewhere for it.”

Pete looked round the bare hallway and clearly decided not to comment, for which Patrick was grateful. “I’ll come round with it tomorrow,” he said, and leant in for another kiss when Joe cleared his throat behind them. 

“Goodnight, my lord,” he said pointedly, and Pete gave in.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, and was gone.

**

The first thing Pete did the next morning, heinously early when he woke up, was go out and buy a piano. He didn’t want to get rid of his own – Greta liked to play it, and it would need to be there when Patrick moved back in – but he couldn’t bear to think of Patrick being without music until then. Then he organised carts to move a load of furniture, and got his servants trooping about, sweating under the weight of bookshelves and sofas and chests-of-drawers.

“You are denuding the entire house,” Greta said disapprovingly, apathetically eyeing a man staggering under the weight of a trestle table. “What’s this in aid of, pray?” 

“The Society for the Prevention of Starving Patricks,” Pete said simply. “Would it be going too far to send curtains?”

“Yes! Because they’d be _our curtains_ ,” Greta said firmly. “And then you’d whinge at me because you wouldn’t be able to sleep.”

Pete conceded the point. “I think he sold every piece of furniture in his house, Greta,” he said. “I’m not going to let him sleep on a hard floor until…”

“Until what?” Greta asked shrewdly.

Pete steeled himself – the dreaded moment had arrived. “What would you say,” he began, unaccountably nervous, “if I told you I was thinking of matrimony?”

“Well,” she said, considering it. “It wouldn’t be a _shock_ …”

“With Patrick.”

“Again, not really surprising,” she said fondly. “You like him, he’s clearly stupid for you, I can’t think of a better outcome, if I’m honest with you.” She smiled. “He makes you happy, and I think you’ll make him happy – it’s ideal, as far as it goes. The only real surprise would be if you’d suddenly decided to throw it all in and marry his manservant.”

“ _Never_ ,” Pete shuddered. “But I don’t like to think of him living in discomfort when I have more than I know what to do with.” He brightened suddenly. “Ooh, could you do some grocery shopping?”

Greta raised an eyebrow. “Mr Stump has a housekeeper. Don’t you think she’d be rather annoyed at me treading on her toes?”

“You do remember how he looked when he first arrived, don’t you?” Pete pointed out. “It’s not the housekeeper’s fault, but there’s no money in that household at all.”

Greta caved. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’re an angel,” he called after her.

“I have always thought it, but now I know it to be true,” a voice said from the open door. 

“Hello, B.”

Brendon dodged out of the way of two men loaded down with a chaise. “What are you doing? You’re not moving, are you? You have to tell me when you buy new houses, Pete. That’s what you pay me to do.”

“I’m not buying a house,” Pete told him. “This is for Patrick.”

Brendon looked around with interest. “For Patrick, is it?” he said noncommittally. “Does he not have any furniture of his own?”

“No,” Pete said shortly. “Did you want anything? Greta’s preoccupied, but one of the maids could probably find you some tea.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Brendon said, sidling round a bookshelf and picking his way over to Pete. “Are you thinking of taking any steps I should know about, Pete?”

Pete hesitated. “Nothing’s definite yet, and I’d rather not tempt fate,” he said finally.

Brendon wasn’t stupid. “Mr Stump,” he said, nodding slowly. “I see.” He shrugged, and smiled. “He seemed nice. Allow me to congratulate you on finding someone sane to marry.”

“He’s not said yes, yet,” Pete said firmly. “Let’s not count our chickens.”

“If you’re out-fitting his house, I’d say the chickens are well and truly hatching by now,” Brendon said, and glanced round the hall. “You never did tell me how you met.”

“Why does everyone want to know that?” Pete asked, throwing up his hands.

“Because he came out of nowhere, and you’re besotted with him. I knew of everyone you introduced me to last night, except him. I mean, I know he’s from a good family, and he’s clearly well-bred, but-”

“You sound like Mrs Lascombe – please stop,” Pete pleaded, and Brendon sighed.

“All I’m saying is, I can’t think of any social situation you two would end up in together,” he said gently. “You’re completely gone on him, and he’s an unknown quantity, and as the person in charge of your substantial business empire and your even more substantial fortune, that makes me nervous.”

Pete straightened up from where he’d been examining a box of books, giving Brendon a very hard look. “He’s not a fortune hunter,” he said quietly. “At my age and in my position, I’d know.”

“I’m sure he isn’t,” Brendon said, just as quietly. “All I’m saying is, you’re mad about him, and people madly in love rarely pay attention to – things they should.”

“I’m not a first-Season heiress,” Pete snapped. “I’ve done my time on the social circuit, I recognise that sort of person at a glance. If you knew him as well as I do, you’d know that the very suggestion is ridiculous. I wish you could believe that I’m not talking as someone in love; I’m talking as someone who knows Patrick. He has just as many reasons not to marry me as he has to marry me – the only one that would count with him is if he loves me.”

“Alright,” Brendon said, holding up his hands. “We won’t talk about it anymore. What can I help move?”

Pete heaved up the box of books and moved to the door. “Could you grab that rug?”

“So where did you meet?” Brendon asked, slightly muffled around the rug he was trying to get a purchase on.

“In a gambling hell,” Pete told him over one shoulder, and didn’t see Brendon’s frown. “It’s complicated.”

**

“Hallo!” Brendon said, hopping out of the carriage and grinning at the expression of complete shock on Mr Stump’s face.

“Mr Urie, how nice,” Patrick said, and rounded on Pete. “Pete, what on earth? I thought you meant you had a spare sofa or two – have you stripped your entire house? Take it back! This is absolute madness.”

Brendon considered that statement for a moment, while Pete stepped up. “But we just got it here,” he said, in tones of utmost reason. “And the footmen are tired.”

Patrick stepped aside automatically to let Pete and his books in. “What, are you telling me Mr Urie brought you a load of books, too, and you don’t have rooms for those anymore?”

“But they’re all the ones you like! There’s Emma, and Evelina, and your very own copy of Pamela.”

This seemed to be an inside joke, because Mr Stump’s face softened. “I hate you,” he said fondly, and went to help Brendon with the unwieldy carpet. “I never expected all this,” he said quietly. 

“Pete might have gone a tad overboard,” Brendon agreed. 

“D’you think we can persuade him to take it back?” Mr Stump asked, looking round with a harried expression. “It’s far too much.”

“I’ve never had any luck persuading Pete to do anything. It’s brute force or nothing with him, I’m afraid,” Brendon said cheerfully. “The sooner it’s all in situ, the sooner you can stop worrying about it all.”

He didn’t miss the stark bareness of Mr Stump’s house, nor the gaps where good furniture had once been. It was a handsome house, but in dire need of some attention, and he couldn’t help but wonder how Mr Stump, so clearly well-bred, had been brought to such straits.

“Goodness,” he said, affecting surprise. “What on earth happened?”

Mr Stump flushed, putting his end of the rug down. “We had to sell some furniture,” he said awkwardly, and didn’t elaborate.

Brendon’s mind flickered back to Pete’s mention of gambling hells, and he looked again around the bare hallway. He was starting to get a very bad feeling about this.

**

The piano was the last straw. Pete presented it with a guilty look of pleasure, and Patrick was almost too overwhelmed to get cross with him – almost, because he couldn’t just accept it without demure. Still, when Pete left him to have dinner with Mikey, taking Brendon off with him, he sat, looking round his sitting room and wondering if it was even the same house anymore. It was nice to have a little bit of Pete, a solid reminder of the last three months, with him in the house. It made the place feel properly like home again.

**

The next morning, Patrick wasn’t expecting any callers, and Joe – who’d been planning to take the morning off to see Greta – looked a little disgruntled when he ushered Brendon in at about ten o’clock.

“Horribly early, isn’t it?” Brendon said cheerfully, relinquishing hat and gloves to Joe’s reluctant hands. “Sorry to call at such an unsociable hour, but I wanted to pop round and have a quick chat.”

Patrick nodded, still a little confused. “Er. Have a seat? How can I help?”

Brendon paused, then amazingly, actually flushed. “Well, it’s like this,” he said awkwardly. “I – I’m sure it’s nothing, really, but. Well, Pete told me how you two met.” Patrick wasn’t about to be caught out by that one yet again, and nodded encouragingly. Chances were, Brendon knew the same fit-for-social-occasions version that Pete had told everyone else who’d asked. “And I heard from Travie, who heard from Lord Michael, that there were two versions of that story, so I asked Pete again, and he said it was ‘complicated’.”

Patrick felt a little chilled, despite the warmth of his drawing room in the late June sunshine. “I see,” he said, though he didn’t. He had absolutely no idea where Brendon was going with this.

Brendon couldn’t meet his eyes. “I like you,” he said, very quietly, almost plaintively. “But it’s my job to look out for Pete’s interests, you know? If Pete says it’s complicated, then I’m sure it is, and it’s not a _problem_ as such, but – you know he’s going to ask you to marry him?”

It was Patrick’s turn to flush, surprised by the sudden change of subject. “I don’t think I should be-” he began, and Brendon cut him off.

“Please, Patrick,” he said, suddenly very serious. “I’m not here to pry, I’m just here to – I want to make sure you’re marrying him for the right reasons. He said you met over a game of cards, and then he said it was complicated, and I’m – well. I’m sure you can understand. I’m imagining all sorts of things, none of them good. And from what I can piece together from – from gossip and so on, I don’t think I’m _wrong_ to be thinking along these lines, you know?” He looked up suddenly, and met Patrick’s eyes, apparently by an effort of will alone. “I just – I just wonder if maybe you’re trying to – reclaim your family name, by marrying him. And I’m sure you’re fond of him and would be a very good husband, but that’s not what Pete needs, is it?”

All the questions Patrick had been going to ask – what business it really was of Brendon’s who Pete married, what on earth he was imagining about Patrick, why he was really here – had slipped away with the deluge of ice-water that had washed over him at those words: ‘reclaim your family name’. What exactly had Brendon heard from the gossips? What were people saying about him? “What have you heard?” he asked, in a voice so unlike his own that even he was surprised. 

Brendon blinked a little, then looked away. “I don’t think I should go into that,” he said guiltily, and Patrick shut his eyes for a second. 

So it was probably true. Oh, he’d always expected there to be gossip, given how unconventional his relationship with Pete had been, and he desperately wanted to marry Pete, so he hadn’t cared. But this was more than that – this was him ruining Pete’s reputation, Pete’s place in society. And he knew Pete didn’t really care, but Patrick cared _for_ him.

“I see,” Patrick said distantly.

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t marry him,” Brendon said quickly. “I just want you to think about it. Will you, Patrick? Please? Just to make sure you’re doing it for the right reasons.”

Patrick nodded, still feeling weirdly disconnected from the entire experience. “Of course,” he said. “Don’t worry. I won’t – drag us into this without thinking about it.”

Brendon looked oddly disturbed at that. “Marrying you would make him happy,” he said, backtracking a little. “I think we both want him happy, but – I just want to make sure that you- you’re not doing it because he’s – well. Because he can make your life easier, and he’s your friend.”

“I understand,” Patrick said, though he’d mostly stopped listening. He kept coming back to the same thought: he couldn’t marry Pete. If he wanted Pete to be safe from the gossips and the sly remarks, all the things that would make any marriage a complete mockery, he couldn’t marry Pete.

He saw Brendon out without even knowing if he said goodbye, or if he’d behaved appropriately, then he went back to the drawing room, and sat, staring at nothing. 

Brendon’s comments about marrying Pete because it would make his life easier hit far too close to the bone, Patrick thought miserably. He loved Pete, he knew that – loved him so much it made him stupid and thoughtless. Brendon was right: he _hadn’t_ thought this through. After all, for all they’d talked it over and explained themselves to each other, the way they’d met would always be hanging over them, and there was always a chance that someone would find out or realise, and then there’d be hell to pay. And even if Patrick knew that he’d marry Pete whether he was the Marquis of Highleyton or as common as muck, no one would ever believe that. People would be whispering about how he’d married Pete for an easy, comfortable life, a steady drip of poison that could eat away at the foundation of any relationship. What if Pete started to believe it?

The more he thought about it, the less feasible it seemed. They were from completely different classes, for all that Patrick was nominally genteel and well-born. Patrick was hanging onto the edge of the Beau Monde with his fingertips – Pete was at its hub. Patrick didn’t have sixpence to scratch with – Pete’s fortune was so vast, people only spoke about it in whispers. And, most damningly of all, Patrick had been willing to whore himself out to pay off a ridiculous gambling debt. It wasn’t just Pete’s social position, Pete himself deserved someone better. 

And if that was the only thing Patrick could give him, then that was what he’d get. The only reason to marry Pete he couldn’t reason away was for Megan’s sake – to give Megan the comfort and security he’d lost for them. And that was no reason to marry anyone, still less Pete, who deserved everything Patrick could give him and more – much more.

He made himself so thoroughly miserable that he went up to his room to lie down, rather than face anyone who might come to call. But that didn’t help – everything from the desk to the armchair had been a gift from Pete, and Patrick felt even worse surrounded by Pete’s generosity. He had taken advantage of him, whether he’d meant to or not – he’d let Pete give him so much, and he couldn’t even begin to repay him.

But really, he thought dismally to himself, what chance did such an unequal marriage _ever_ have?

**

By the time Joe came up to get him, Patrick’s fit of the dismals had worn themselves down into a quiet, baseline misery that wasn’t helped by the look of glee on Joe’s face.

“You’ve got a visitor,” Joe told him merrily.

“I’m not at home to callers,” Patrick said, for the first and probably last time. It wasn’t as though he had much of a social life to speak of. 

“I think you’re at home to this one,” Joe retorted. “My lord Highleyton’s downstairs. Made a point of telling me he wants to talk to you alone, so I’ll be listening at the door all the way through – you just yell if you need me.”

“Yes,” Patrick said despondently. “Thanks, Joe. Alright, tell him I’ll be down shortly.”

When he reached the drawing room, Pete was all-but vibrating on the spot, and Patrick had to exercise a little quick-thinking to avoid a kiss. Just seeing Pete again brought a lump to his throat – he’d never wanted anything as badly as he wanted Pete, to marry Pete, to spend the rest of his life with him. And perhaps he was panicking, but he had to turn him down. And it was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever do.

**

It had taken a surprising amount of courage to get him over to Patrick’s that afternoon, and the wait he’d had for Patrick to get downstairs hadn’t helped his nerves at all. But seeing Patrick was like a tonic – all the worry fell away, and he knew that this was the best, rightest decision he’d ever made.

"So," he cleared his throat, still nervous, even though he didn’t doubt his own decision for a moment. And yet he was nervous about talking to Patrick. Patrick! Who liked him even on his worst days, and had all-but told Pete he was definitely going to say yes. "We've been, um, well. You know, and-"

Patrick looked wretched. "Pete, I-"

"No, please, let me finish," Pete said, stumbling over his words in his haste to get them out. "Patrick, I- I'm- alright, normally, I'm good with words, but I don't - what I want to say is that, well. After spending the last few months with you, I’m pretty sure that all I want to do is spend the rest of my life with you. Would you - would you marry me?"

Patrick was very white, and he wouldn't meet Pete's eyes. "I - no. I'm sorry, Pete. I won't."

For one brief, terrible second, Pete's whole world slipped horribly sideways.

"Oh," he said politely, as soon as the world had righted itself again, though everything still felt wrong and off-kilter. "Could I ask why not? I'll respect your decision, of course, but a reason might be nice."

Patrick looked down, still very pale, and Pete noticed distantly that his hands were shaking as he shoved them into his pockets. "No. You can't. I just - don't think it would be a good idea. For me to marry you."

“Please?" Pete asked, still scrupulously polite. He felt as though the world was a very long way away from him at this moment. “Please, give me a reason. An excuse – anything.” He paused, then added with an honesty that hurt, “I love you, you see.”

Patrick looked wretched, but his mouth was set. "Don't say you don't know why," he muttered and Pete frowned.

"But I don't," he said honestly. "I thought we were getting on so well, and at Highleyton-"

"Highleyton - that's different," Patrick said, flushing a little, probably remembering the kisses in Pete's room. Pete thought about those kisses a lot. "That's - no one was there!"

"To see you canoodling with me, I see," Pete said flatly, feeling anger bubble up inside him. He held onto it; at least angry he didn't feel empty.

"No," Patrick snapped, "shut up. Not that at all. How could you even think that?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" Pete demanded. "You're happy enough to kiss me, but you won't marry me!"

"It's not that," Patrick said wearily. "I - I wish things were different, Pete, but they aren't. You know perfectly well that they aren't. It wouldn't be right."

"It wouldn't be _right_?! Patrick, this is - meeting you is the best thing that ever happened to me. I can't imagine anything more right."

"That doesn't mean it's the right thing to do," Patrick said, and turned away. "I'd like you to go now, please." He cleared his throat. "And I don't think it would be a good idea for you to come back. The, um. The things you sent round, I'll have them brought back-"

"Keep them," Pete said, numb. "They were meant for you. I don't have any use for them." There were a lot of things he wouldn't have any use for without Patrick.

**

When Pete left, Patrick sank back down into the same chair he’d sat in this morning, when everything had tumbled down around him. He was too unhappy and drained even to cry – he just sat there, staring at the ugly carpet and trying not to think.

Joe bustled in, and quirked an eyebrow at him. “Well?” he asked. “When’s the happy day?”

Abruptly, Patrick stood. “Don’t,” he said shortly. “I’m not marrying Lord Highleyton. We’re – we’re just friends, that’s all.”

Joe gaped at him, before pulling himself together and starting to frown. “Just fri- Patrick, I’m neither blind nor stupid. What the hell’s happened? Didn’t he ask you to marry him? Or did you turn him down?”

He’d clearly meant it as a joke, but one look at Patrick’s face evidently told him everything he needed to know. “Oh my God, you did. You did! You turned him down! What – Patrick, what are you _thinking_?!”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Patrick said miserably. 

“Tough,” Joe said unsympathetically. “Are you mad? You _love_ him! And it’s not as though he’s ineligible, for Christ’s sake – are you out of your senses?! Can’t you – tell him you made a mistake, or-”

“Joe!” Patrick snapped. “I said, _I don’t want to talk about it_.”

Joe drew himself up and stared at him. “Fine,” he said quietly. “But… well. Are you alright?”

Patrick shook his head. “No,” he said, in a small voice. “No, I’m not.” Before Joe could say anything more, Patrick shook his head. “I’m going upstairs,” he mumbled. “I’ll – I’ll see you later.”

**

Brendon couldn’t suppress a niggling feeling that maybe he’d done more harm than good this morning. It wasn’t that he disliked Mr Stump – that had never been the problem – but he had worried, after everything he’d heard, and Pete was a friend before he was an employer, so he’d been trying to make sure everything was fine and above-board about this marriage Pete had planned. But he was starting to worry that maybe he’d misstepped.

“You’ve got a face like a wet weekend,” Travis said, when Brendon reappeared in the sitting room of their shared lodgings. “What’s wrong with you?”

Brendon threw himself into a chair and frowned down at his shoes. “I went round to talk to Mr Stump this morning,” he confided.

“Oh?” Travis said lazily. He had a sheaf of notes in one hand and an expression that said he was more interested in his research than their conversation; Brendon was used to that.

“To make sure he’s marrying Pete for the right reasons,” he said, very quickly. Better to confess as soon as possible, and get it over with.

Travis glanced up at that. “S’not really your place, is it?” he said mildly, and Brendon squirmed.

“Well, no,” he agreed awkwardly. “But then, yes. I mean, I’m his business manager, aren’t I? And from a business point of view, Mr Stump’s an entirely risky venture.”

“That’s the point, though, isn’t it?” Travis said, putting down his notes and giving Brendon his full attention. “It’s _not_ from a business point of view. “Pete’s stupid for him.”

“I know, but – I wasn’t saying Mr Stump shouldn’t marry him. I just wanted to, well. See what he’d say and for him to think about what he’s hoping for if he marries Pete.”

Travis considered the point, but shrugged. “Well, from the look of him last night at that interminable hell-party, I’d say he was expecting a life of wedded bliss, even though I’d have expected him to know better. But you can’t legislate for fools, and I’m sure they’ll be very happy together.”

“Yes,” Brendon agreed awkwardly. Travis took up his notes again, and Brendon fidgeted in his chair a little more. Finally, he blurted out, “I think I might accidentally have done more harm than good.”

Travis let his notes fall once more, with a sigh. “This is you, angling for me to do some digging, isn’t it?” he asked, long-suffering. “I can go round to the Felsons and find out if you like. Since I’m clearly not going to get any work done here.”

Brendon brightened, beaming at his friend. “Would you?” he said, gratefully. “Just to put my mind at ease?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Travis said firmly, and stood. “I’ll send you word express if there are any complications. Though I probably won’t need to, because Pete will have murdered you already.”

**

Travis had only been back in England for a week, and he was already getting embroiled in other people’s ridiculous schemes and intrigues. It was all so much easier in Mysore, he thought wistfully, strolling leisurely through the streets to Bill and Gabe’s house; there, he could focus on music, and no one tried to get him interested in the latest _on-dits_ and scandals, and they certainly didn’t ask him to play cupid to a pair of idiots.

As luck would have it, he met Gabe and Bill on doorstep, just stepping into their house, and he hailed them cheerfully. For the first time he could remember, they didn’t look particularly thrilled to see him; Bill barely smiled.

“Travis,” Gabe said, smiling a little more sincerely than his husband. “This isn’t a particularly good moment-”

“Oh dear,” Travis said slowly. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Just a friend of ours being ridiculous,” Bill muttered, and exchanged a quick glance with Gabe. “Alright, _more_ ridiculous,” he conceded, in response to Gabe’s expression.

“Well, I won’t take up your time,” Travis said, harbouring a few shrewd suspicions of his own as to who the idiotic friend might be. “I was just sent on a mercy mission by Brendon – have you heard anything from Mr Stump? Some good news, perhaps?”

“I think,” Gabe said, eyeing him, “that you’d better come in.”

Once they were safely ensconced with tea in the Felsons’ bright, pleasant sitting room, Bill took the path of least resistance and asked Travis outright. “What have you heard?” he said bluntly. “I wouldn’t have thought there’d be rumours already.”

“I’ve got an inside voice,” Travis said, with a grin. “I’m lodging with Brendon at the moment, and he went round to visit Patrick earlier.”

Bill didn’t react, but Gabe gave Travis a very sharp look, which Travis met with a bland smile. “Did he?” Gabe asked lightly, and Travis shrugged.

“A slight misunderstanding arose, I think,” he brushed it off, and Gabe quirked a dry smile.

“I see,” he said, and Bill frowned up at him.

“Good for you,” he said tartly. “Now, if someone could get round to explaining it to _me_ …”

“Why don’t you tell Mr McCoy how we found out, hm?” Gabe said lazily, perching on the arm of Bill’s chair and slinging an arm round his shoulders. For one blinding moment, Travis envied them both, then he forced himself to remember exactly why he was here.

“We sent round to Patrick, to see whether Pete had come up to scratch, and Joe – his valet – told us that he wasn’t in to visitors,” Bill explained. “So naturally we thought everything had gone rather well, except Joe’s an old friend – we grew up together – and he didn’t look happy, so… he explained that Pete _had_ come up to scratch, but Patrick had refused him. Patrick!” he gestured eloquently, summing up exactly what he thought of that. “So naturally we went in to see him, to comfort him-” and Travis interrupted.

"Comfort him?" he asked casually, and Bill gave him an impatient look.

"Yes, comfort him, or lock him up, one of the two. Have you ever seen them in the same room?” Travis nodded thoughtfully. “They're mad about each other, it'd be sweet if it wasn't so sickening. Either Patrick's gone mad, or something's gone very, very wrong. Anyway, we went in, and asked him why, and he just kept mumbling about how he couldn't marry Pete because he'd be 'bad for him', and how 'everyone knew' how they met’ - which is nonsense, Gabe and I are the only ones who know, and we _can_ keep a secret sometime, honestly - and muttering that everyone would laugh at Pete if he married him, and I have no idea what's got into him."

“How they met? I thought it was over a gambling debt,” Travis said, as carelessly as he could.

Gabe and Bill exchanged a look he couldn’t quite read. “It was a little more complicated than that,” Gabe said lightly. “They had some misunderstandings. But honestly, they’re utterly ridiculous. What can have given Patrick the idea that he shouldn’t marry Pete?”

Travis sighed. He liked Brendon, he really did, but sometimes he felt he didn’t get enough credit for fixing other people’s messes. “Well,” he said easily, “I might be able to shed some light on that. My idiot roommate decided to go round and make sure Patrick knew what he was getting into, marrying Pete, and apparently, Mr Stump has taken fright, at what was only meant to be pause for thought.”

Bill groaned. “Oh, I could murder the pair of them,” he said wrathfully. “Alright. What do we do?”

**

For the next hour or so, the Felson’s house was the site of the council of war. The question was what to do with Pete and Patrick, but luckily, Travis couldn’t have come to anyone in the city better suited to help out with that. Gabe knew Pete, and Bill had grown up with Patrick – they were well prepared to deal with whatever came next.

“The thing is,” Bill said thoughtfully, “is to get Pete to go round to see Patrick.”

“Will Patrick even see him?” Gabe asked. “Because I seem to remember that when someone’s turned you down, they aren’t always so very quick to want to see you again.”

“Personal experience,” Bill told Travis in an aside. “His first proposal was dreadful. And,” he told Gabe, who looked more amused than anything else, “of course he’ll see him, because I’ll go round and tell him that he owes it to Pete to see him and explain, at least a little. _Your_ job is to make sure Pete actually does go to see him.”

“And if he won’t?”

“Frogmarch him,” Bill suggested coolly. “I’m not having these two idiots moping around my city, it makes us all look bad.”

“Anything I can do?” Travis asked, amused by these business-like proceedings but feeling rather out of his depth.

“I don’t think so,” Bill said, patting him absently on the shoulder. “I’d better go and work on Patrick. Gabe, you go and stop Pete from doing anything ridiculous. Like emigrating.”

**

Greta appeared in the door of the drawing room, where Pete had barricaded himself to lick his wounds. “Viscount Felson is here to see you, sir.”

"Which one?" Pete said idly, half-tempted to say he wasn’t in to callers.

“My lord Gabe,” Greta was looking at him with concern. "Pete, are you sure you're up to visitors?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Pete flashed her a smile so brittle it felt his face would crack. If Greta thought he wasn’t up to callers, then he’d definitely have Gabe in.

Greta paused, clearly weighing up the pros and cons of mentioning Patrick and deciding against it. "I'll say you'll be down shortly," she said and left, still frowning.

Pete pulled on his jacket and grinned at the mirror, hoping it didn't look as false as he thought. Turning away, he let the smile drop and went downstairs.

Gabe was in the drawing room. "I've heard the most ridiculous rumour," he said by way of greeting.

"Oh?" Pete went to the sideboard and poured himself a measure of brandy.

"Yes. Dalziel at my club says you're leaving tomorrow. For India."

"That is ridiculous," Pete sat down in the armchair opposite him. "It'll take me at least a month to organise the ship."

He'd meant it as a joke but evidently he wasn't up to humour; Gabe scowled at him. "So you are leaving."

Pete shrugged and took a gulp of brandy. "Nothing to keep me here," he muttered.

"Thank you so much."

"Apart from you," Pete amended hastily. "And it's not just that. I miss India, the Ton gets worse and worse every time I come back... apart from you, Bill and Greta, there's no reason why I'd stay." He looked down at his brandy and back up at Gabe. "I forgot - would you like one?"

"No thanks," Gabe's eyes flickered to the clock. Ten o'clock. Pete shrugged: late enough. "What will you do about your business here?"

"I've got Brendon. He can take over."

"And Patrick?"

Pete swallowed, the hurt still razor-sharp. "What about him?" he tried for a polite, enquiring smile. Juding by Gabe's sceptical expression, it hadn't worked. He sighed. "Patrick...doesn't want me."

Gabe snorted. "You're an idiot. Yes he does. He loves you."

Pete shook his head. "He doesn't. I asked him yesterday. He said no." With more effort than he thought he was capable of, he dragged himself together and smiled. "So! We should go out this evening, if you're free - I've heard there's a new hell open. We should go and see if I can waste any more of my hard-earned fortune."

Gabe glared at him. "The only place you're going is round to Patrick's. You two are the least intelligent people I've ever met, and that's a long list. Did it ever occur to you to think of why he turned you down? No, because that would be rational-"

"He had reasons. A lot of them."

"And all of them were nonsense. I know why he refused you and if you pull your head out of your backside and stop terrifying your servants with that weird smile, I'll tell you."

Pete shook his head. Just thinking about it made him want to crawl into bed and never come out again. "He said he didn't want to see me, Gabe."

Gabe rolled his eyes. "He's an idiot, too. He doesn't want to see you because he's convinced everyone in Society thinks he's a whore and you're a fool who'd marry a whore."

Pete stared at him. "He doesn't - why would he think that? We cleared that up at Highleyton. He can't think that _I_ -"

"For what it's worth, I've heard nothing about him other than that you're interested." Gabe shrugged. "As to why he thinks that, apparently your man - Brendon - went to talk to him yesterday about his intentions.I mentioned you met in a hell and he evidently thought he was talking to a hardened gambler who'd have you both in the workhouse by the end of the year. patrick thought he was talking about your original agreement."

Pete frowned. "How do you know all this?"

"Travie told me. He and Bill are round with Patrick now. I'm supposed to bring you. So get your hat and coat and let's go." Gabe stood up, but Pete shook his head.

"He doesn't want to see me," he repeated dully. It was foolish to get his hopes up.

Gabe made an inarticulate sound of exasperation that ordinarily Pete would have found hilarious. "He doesn't want to see you because he's afraid he might somehow ruin your tattered reputation ever more, impossible though that may be. Or because if he sees you, he might actually be persuaded to marry you, and god forbid he ever be happy."

Pete didn't say anything. He should go back to India. He'd be better off there, drowning himself in paperwork, putting love out of his mind for a second time. He couldn't get his hopes up just to see them dashed again.

Gabe sighed. "Pete. He loves you. Any idiot can see that, the way he looks at you. And if they hadn't guessed, his creeping off to canoodle in corners with you would be enough proof. He went with you to Highleyton, for god's sake! He saw your estate and met your neighbours! Patrick's not stupid - if that doesn't scream Intentions, I don't know what does. He loves you. Despite all the odds - and you stacked those pretty damn high - he loves you and I'll be damned if I stand by and let you waste your own opportunity for happiness out of some bull-headed idea that you don’t deserve it. I’m not going to indulge your penchant for self-destruction."

Pete took a deep breath and let it out shakily. He had no idea how to make things better or even where to start. Every instinct he had told him to get out now before he was hurt even more. Letting go of Mikey had been painful, forgetting Patrick would be worse, but infinitely preferable to offering his himself up to be crushed for a second time. It was a matter of self-preservation.

Pete had never had much sense of self-preservation.

He sighed and stood up. "Andy! My hat."

**

When they arrived at Patrick’s house, Bill opened the door for them.

“How is he?” Gabe asked, and Bill shrugged helplessly. Pete stared – he’d never seen Bill look defeated.

“I don’t know,” he said. “He’s barely said anything since we’ve arrived. But I have got him to agree to talk to you, Pete.”

Pete steeled himself. “Where is he?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt.

“Upstairs, in his room,” Bill said. “Go on up – he’ll see you. I made him promise.”

Pete could feel his heart in his throat all the way up the stairs. Nothing had ever felt as important as this – if he got this right, then he’d get the thing he wanted most in the world. And if he got it wrong, he was fairly sure he wouldn’t get another chance.

Gabe knocked loudly on Patrick’s door. "Patrick. Pete wants to talk to you."

A resounding silence came from inside the room. Gabe sighed and pushed Pete forward. Words normally came so easily to Pete but for once, he couldn't think of anything that would make things better. "Patrick?" he said and winced, his voice hoarse from wine and talking. "Patrick, please come out. Or talk to me. You don't have to come out but please talk to me. Look - Brendon didn't - he didn't know. He was doing what he thought he had to - he's seen me make stupid mistakes before - but he knows now, you'd never, never - please come out. I can't do this to a closed door."

For an agonising few seconds, there was complete silence. Then they heard footsteps and miraculously the door creaked open.

"Go away, Gabe," Patrick said, exhausted. "Apparently, Pete and I need to talk. We don't need a mediator."

"Could have fooled me," Gabe said, and held up his hands when Patrick looked at him, apparently too done even to say anything. "Alright, I'm going!"

Pete swallowed when Patrick looked back at him, trying not to catalogue the shadows under Patrick's eyes, and the miserable set to his mouth. If it had been even three days ago, he would have hugged him, but this Patrick looked like he might shatter if Pete tried. "You misunderstood," he said, very quietly. "Brendon just wanted to make sure you weren't just - marrying me for the money, or whatever. But I _know_ you wouldn't be. I know you. And no one knows how we met or how we ended up getting to know each other, but frankly, I don't care if the whole of London thought you were a whore and laughed up their sleeve at me for falling for you, because I'd be your husband and I'd be the proudest man in the world."

"But I'd care," Patrick said and it hurt even to say it. "Knowing that people looked at me and thought that of me. Not even that they laughed, just that they thought it was possible. And knowing that they thought less of you. I can't do it, Pete. I just," he took a deep, shuddering breath, and tried to smile. "It would be better if we stayed friends - I'm sure Mrs Lascombe has someone lined up for you - probably me, as well! I'll - I'll even keep you company at one of her parties."

"No," Pete said simply. "No, you don't understand. I don't want anyone if I can't marry you. And if you don't _want_ to marry me, that's fine, I'd never pressure you or- but that's not it, is it? It's not that you don't want to marry me."

Patrick stared at him hopelessly. "God, Pete," he said, and sighed, looking away. "You've got to - I mean, I thought you _knew_ \- there's nothing I want more. But I won't do it."

"Please," Pete said desperately. "Please. We don't have to stay in England, if you don't want to. We could go back to India, live there, anywhere you like. I'd rather be with you than anywhere else."

"I _can't_ ," Patrick told him miserably.

"You can," Pete said. "You absolutely can, Trick, you're - no one knows, alright? No one. Travis didn't know. The only people who know are Gabe and Bill, and - and no one will find out about the debt. No one. They might think that we pre-empted our wedding day a little, but almost everyone does that."

Patrick shook his head. “How certain are you that no one knows?” he asked quietly. “Are you completely sure? Because someone could always find out and hold that over you, you know.” He glanced away, and Pete could see the strain he’d been under over the last few days – he wanted nothing more than to hold him and take away a little of that strain, but this Patrick wouldn’t thank him for it. “And anyway,” he added, “our relationship hardly started well, Pete. That’s always going to be hanging over us, even if no one else every finds out – every time we fight, we’ll be able to throw that at each other, and it will _always_ hurt. Is that really the kind of marriage you want?”

**

The question hung in the air, and Patrick had to bite his tongue to stop himself from taking back everything he’d said, to stop him from telling Pete that of _course_ he’d marry him, he wanted nothing more. That way disaster lay.

“Do you really think that of me?" Pete said finally, expressionless. His hands were shaking. Patrick so badly wanted to hug him, but he stayed over on his side of the room.

"I think it's easy to say things in the heat of the moment," he said, and Pete nodded.

"That's true. You're right. But - it would be true if I ever thought of you that way. Patrick, I never, ever thought of you as a whore. As someone naive who'd played beyond his means, yes, but never as a whore. And you've got to understand," Pete leaned forward in his chair, his eyes pleading, "just a day with you was enough to make me realise I'd completely misjudged you."

For a second, Patrick looked as though he was wavering and Pete pressed on. "And people talk about me, too. I know you've heard them - Mikey told me," he smiled briefly and Patrick's cheeks heated, remembering his altercation with Cecy Straithcarn. "They talk about me and I don't mind, but I would never let anyone even think about you. Believe me, I'm so jealous of anyone else who gets even a second of your time, it's amazing I didn't try and persuade you to stay at Highleyton with me. Which we could, if you wanted," he added quickly. "I know you liked it there."

"Pete-"

"And I'm selfish," Pete cut across Patrick before he could say anything, "I'm selfish because I am so much better when you're here and I don't want to lose that feeling, or you. If - if you honestly didn't want to marry me, then that - I'd accept that. But you do, and I _know_ you do, so I'm going to be selfish and I will come here every goddamn day and talk at you until you marry me, because I love you so much I can't not. You - you fill up the silences in my head. You make them quieter."

Patrick gave him a long, steady look. "You honestly don't care what people think?"

"I never care what people think, and I care still less what people think about you. If they judge you, well. They're wrong."

"And you - you never thought - badly, you never thought badly of me?"

"Never. Not once," Pete promised him.

Patrick nodded once, then said, very quietly, "and you don't think I'm just marrying you for your money? To make life easier for myself?"

Pete couldn't help it - he laughed. "Patrick, if you thought for one second that marrying me would make your life easier, I wouldn't have asked you to marry me. And answer me this - if I promised you an annuity, right now, enough to live on comfortably for the rest of your life, would you still want to marry me?"

"Of course," Patrick said, immediately, then flushed. "But I could just be saying that."

"No one who wanted to marry my money would try so hard to convince me not to marry them," Pete pointed out. "I want you to marry me because I love you, and because I - well. I think you love me?"

"I love you so much it hurts," Patrick admitted in a very small voice. "But that doesn't mean we'd actually be good for each other."

"We probably won't be all the time," Pete told him. "I'm jealous and ridiculous and mad, and you're prissy and cross and temperamental and we've both got enough self-esteem issues to fill every one of my estates. But just because we're bad for each other sometimes doesn't mean we're not good for each other the rest of the time."

He met Patrick's eyes steadily. "So, let's try this again. Patrick, I love you. I want to marry you and spend the rest of my life with you. I want to wake up next to you and spend my days irritating you and loving you and driving you mad. So. Will you marry me?"

For a long, horrible moment, Patrick was completely silence. Then, all at once, he seemed to crumple, and he started to smile - wan and half-hearted but still, definitely a smile. "Yes," he said simply. "Pete, I would absolutely _love_ to marry you."

"Oh my _God_ , finally," Pete said, letting out the breath he'd unconsciously been holding, and crossing the room to hug Patrick. "Thank _God_."

Patrick clung, just a little. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I'm an idiot."

"Me too," Pete agreed, and held on tighter. "Right, look, I'm going to go home, because Gabe is probably terrorising Joe - or setting up an alliance, which is worse - and you need to _sleep_ , Patrick, my god, you look terrible." He laid one hand on Patrick's cheek, then pecked a kiss on his forehead. "I love you. You're marrying me. No returns, you said yes, and now you can never take that back. I'll puff it up in all the papers and have the banns read so by the time you wake up you won't be able to say no anymore and it's going to be _amazing_."

"I am clearly marrying a madman," Patrick said, but he was smiling like he couldn't stop, and Pete _loved_ him.

"You knew that," he said, almost manically cheerful. "And you can't get out of it now." He led Patrick over to the bed and pushed him down, and for a second, they couldn't look at each other, both half-lost in the anticipation of another bed on another day, in the future. Then Pete dropped a kiss on Patrick's hair. "Sleep, you lunatic," he said firmly. "You need it.”

"Go and take Gabe and get out of my house," Patrick told him, toeing off his shoes. "And - I should probably talk to Mr Urie."

"Not before I've spoken to him," Pete said darkly, and Patrick shot him a look. "I know, I know, he was looking out for me - but it hurt you and it hurt me, and all the best intentions in the world don't make up for hurting you. I'm going now. Go to _sleep_ , Patrick. I'll be back for dinner. I'll bring Brendon. And Bill! Bill should come."

"Go away," Patrick said, smiling. "I love you."

“I’ll go,” Pete said, and kissed him again. “But I’m coming back. And soon, you’re never going to leave.”

**

“Can I open my eyes yet?” Patrick asked. They’d been on the road all day, and Pete hadn’t let him open his eyes for the last half hour. His hand was in Pete’s, and he could feel the new gold of Pete’s wedding ring pressing into his palm. Impulsively, he brought Pete’s hand up and kissed the band, and Pete laughed, and pulled him in for a proper kiss.

“No,” he said, when he pulled back. “This is supposed to be a surprise.”

“But what _is_ it?” Patrick asked.

“Well, if I told you, it would hardly be a surprise, would it?” 

“Please tell me I can open my eyes sometime soon. I’m starting to feel a bit seasick.” On cue, the carriage rolled to a halt, and Patrick heard the door being opened. “ _Now_ can I open my eyes?”

“No! No, you have to get out first. Come on, I’ll help you.”

Patrick stumbled down out of the carriage, Pete’s hands guiding him forwards, and stopped obediently when Pete did.

“ _Now_ you can open them,” Pete said, glee in every syllable.

Patrick opened his eyes and stopped breathing for a second. “Pete,” he breathed, turning to look at his new husband. “That’s – are you – this is-”

“Your wedding present!” Pete said, eyes fond, but the set of his mouth was nervous. “Do you like it?”

“Pete, this is Westcote,” Patrick said slowly.

“Yes. Yes, it is. I checked.”

“You _bought_ Westcote.”

“No. I bought _you_ Westcote. It’s yours. It’s all in your name – Brendon drew up the contract. All rents, arrears and income are yours. Every last acre is yours. And a few extra, because there’s really good farmland round here-”

Patrick kissed him. “You amazing, ridiculous man,” he said, pulling back. “How am I ever going to live up to that? I got you a watch.”

“But you’re you,” Pete said blankly. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He paused. “But, you know, the watch is wonderful, too.”

Patrick kissed him again, taking time to savour it, the knowledge that he could kiss Pete whenever he wanted to now, in front of whomever he liked. Pete was his husband, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing anyone could do about it.

Finally, he pulled back, and Pete grinned at him, soppy and kiss-dazed. 

“I love you,” Patrick told him, grinning back. “Come and see my house.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find us on tumblr at [xaritomene](xaritomene.tumblr.com) and [outrunningthezombies](outrunningthezombies.tumblr.com) (xrysomou)!


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